


titles are fake

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 2018 Winter Olympics, 2018 World Figure Skating Championships, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Bad Decisions, Emotional Support Dog Vicchan, Enemies to Lovers to Friends, Flash Fire?, M/M, Sex, What's the opposite of slow burn, Yuri is a Dick, otayuri big bang 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: Four-time World Champion and Olympic bronze medalist Yuri Plisetsky is at the top of his game. He’s come to PyeongChang to take home gold, and he’ll sacrifice anything to make sure he gets it.When he hears a rumor that competitor Otabek Altin plans to debut a surprise quad loop in his free program, Yuri sets his sights on keeping Otabek off the podium, whatever the cost. But few plans ever work out the way you intended them, and it turns out the Olympics may not be the only games in town.





	titles are fake

**Author's Note:**

> Always the most gratitude to [AshSeven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshSeven/pseuds/AshSeven) for betaing this creature and to [Poly](http://polydraws.tumblr.com/) for the artwork!
> 
> This is an age-reversal AU. For the purposes of this story, Yuri P. is 27/28, Otabek is 23, Victor is 19, and Yuuri K. is 16. Other characters appear only briefly for the most part, and if you ask me their ages I may or may not know the answer. 
> 
> Please enjoy the story!

Yuri let the duffel bag slip off his shoulder and tossed it onto the bed closest to the door, then stood, hands on his hips, inspecting the apartment. The furniture was cheap, and the quilts on both beds were a hideous shade of bright fuchsia, but at least there were no random holes in the white walls, and the light switch worked.

He dropped his suitcase on the fresh laminate floors and stuck his head through the bathroom door. Everything _looked_ like it was operational this time. He turned the hot water knob on the sink and stuck his hand beneath the tap, glancing up to check the mirror while he waited. As expected, his hair was a damned tragedy, unwashed and still pulled up in an awkward half-ponytail for travel. He tugged at the dark circles under his eyes. He was going to need a lot of concealer to cover those, but at least he still wasn’t getting _wrinkles_ yet.

The water turned from lukewarm to boiling hot against his skin, and he pulled back with a muttered curse, waving his hand around to cool it. Well, at least there was hot water.

Korea was already much more efficient than Russia, it seemed. Sochi had been a disgrace, even for the motherland team. Yuri’s shower hadn’t functioned at all during the last Olympics, and he’d been forced to take turns with several other athletes, all vying to use the rare working bathroom in Coach Feltsman’s apartment.

He shut the water back off, stepped over his discarded bag, and collapsed onto the bed. The offensive pink comforter was sandpaper on the outside and cotton candy beneath, but the mattress was firm. In Yuri’s long experience with athlete dorms and hotels, this was far from objectionable.

He jammed his fingers into his pocket and pried out his phone to check the time, then frowned. The rink wouldn’t be open to start practices for a few hours still. What the hell was he supposed to do in PyeongChang with no rink access?

He rolled to the edge of the bed and snagged his duffel by the strap, dragging it closer to fish his earbuds out of the side pocket. Once his headphones were hooked up, he lay back on his bed again and queued up his short program music, letting his eyes drift shut as the first familiar notes filtered into his ears. 

He pictured his starting position, then began mentally running through the program. Triple axel, double toe combination, then the ina bauer, and after that he’d set up for the quad salchow, then the step sequence would go…

A pounding on the door broke his concentration. He popped out a single earbud. “Go away,” he yelled. “I’m busy.”

“Yuri Plisetsky,” Coach Feltsman bellowed through the door, knocking harder. “Unlock this door right now!”

Groaning loud enough to be heard through the wall, Yuri swung his feet around to the floor, then crossed the apartment to disengage the deadbolt and crack the door. “What?” he snapped. “Did they open the rink early?”

Yakov’s squat form felt like it filled the entire doorway, even now that Yuri was tall enough to see over his Coach’s head. The old man had his shoulders up and his stupid brown hat pulled low over his ears, as if the battered fedora was anywhere near thick enough to keep his bald head warm. There was a kid behind him, grinning wide as he bounced on his toes, his silver-blond hair pulled into two long pigtails like a little girl on her first day of kindergarten. 

“No. I came to remind you about the ISU welcome reception.” Yuri pulled a face, and Yakov glowered right back at him. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, pointing at Yuri. “This is important, and you’re far too old to act like a moody teenager and get away with it. How will Russia look if our world champion can’t be bothered to attend a single social event?”

“Like the cold-hearted bastards we are,” Yuri said, leaning against the doorjamb. “I’m not here just to make Mother Russia look good.”

“Maybe not,” Yakov countered. “But you’re expected to do it anyway. Get changed. Do something about that,” he gestures to Yuri’s face, “And I expect you to be ready to go in an hour. If you don’t turn up, I’ll send Lilia after you.”

God forbid. Lilia had a tendency to pinch. “Fine,” Yuri snapped. “But as soon as they open the rink, I’m leaving.” 

He started to shut the door, but Yakov jammed his foot in the gap before it could close. “That’s not all,” the old man grumbled, reaching back to grab the boy behind him by the arm. He gently pushed the kid forward, right up into Yuri’s space. “Russia may think you’re too good for a roommate, but the IOC disagrees. Vitya is staying with you.”

It was tempting to fight back, deny, maybe slam the door in his face, but Yuri was tired, and Yakov was clearly in no mood to be challenged today. He resigned himself to the situation and opened the door a little wider. The kid had to squeeze to fit through with his bags, pulling the duffel tight against his body and pressing against the door frame to avoid brushing against Yuri, but unfortunately he made it in.

“Fine,” Yuri said. “See you in an hour.” And he shut the door before Yakov could say anything more about it.

The kid was standing in the middle of the room, staring around him with his mouth hanging open like an idiot. Of course, it was his first Olympics. He probably even liked the pink bedspreads. 

Yuri shoved his duffel onto the floor. “That one’s yours,” he told the kid, pointing at the bed he’d just cleared. “Keep all your shit over here, okay?”

The kid perked up like a dog begging for a treat when Yuri spoke to him. “Sure,” he said, sticking out his hand. “We’ve never really met, right? I’m Victor. Of course, I’ve seen you at the rink sometimes, but-”

Yuri stepped into the bathroom, sliding the door shut behind him. From outside, he heard a soft, “Oh.” Whatever. He came here to get a gold medal, not to babysit Yakov’s second-stringers. 

It took awhile for the shower to warm up to his tastes, but once it did, he didn’t waste any time before getting in and washing the airplane from his skin. He didn’t mind flying economy, even if he could technically afford first class, except that he always felt dingy after. A thorough shower was a necessity. Despite his efficiency, the water had gone lukewarm by the time he shut off the taps. He towel-dried his hair, then wrapped the thin, white terry cloth around his waist.

When Yuri shoved the bathroom door open, Victor was seated on his bed, holding his phone at arm’s length in the iconic selfie pose. “If you can see me or my shit in any of those, I expect you to delete them,” Yuri said, tossing his suitcase onto the bed.

Victor looked over to Yuri and then quickly turned to face the wall. He must have seen more than he bargained for. “Why?” he asked. “You use Instagram.”

“I _currate_ my Instagram,” Yuri corrected him, pulling the least-wrinkled options from his bag for the evening. “I don’t want everyone on the internet knowing where I am at any given moment, and the last thing I need is a bunch of skating groupies thinking they’ve got some kind of access to my bedroom.”

He shot another look at Victor, who was still determinedly staring at the wall. Was the kid this uncomfortable with nudity even in locker rooms, or was Yuri just lucky? Either way, it was already grating on his nerves.

“Go take your shower,” Yuri said, jerking his head back toward the bathroom. “So I can get changed in peace. There might even be some hot water left.”

Without another word, Victor grabbed his entire duffel bag and hustled into the bathroom, leaving Yuri shaking his head. So that was Yakov’s _Vitya_ , huh? The boy had looks to spare, and Yuri could see a grace to his movements that spoke to his dance experience and high performance scoring, even off the ice.

But performance scores alone weren’t enough for gold at the Olympics. 

Yuri dropped his towel and began getting dressed for the reception. He hadn’t brought anything particularly formal, so black jeans and a white shirt would have to do. He held the shirt up to the light. It was definitely wrinkled, but if he threw suspenders on over it, he could make it work.

Of course, Yuri was _aware_ of Victor. He avoided the others as much as he could at the rink, preferring private ice time when he could get it, but he always had an eye out for potential competition, even among the Juniors. Victor’s rise at that level at been meteoric, fueled by a reliable triple-triple combination and that high PCS. He’d destroyed Yuri’s own Junior records, and Yakov had even made an attempt to get Yuri involved in his coaching when he made his senior debut at sixteen.

Yuri smirked at himself in the full-length mirror, shirt hanging open as his dripping hair turned the fabric translucent in splotches. He’d been right to turn Yakov down. Puberty had taken _Vitya_ between its teeth and shaken him for the past three years. The kid had only scraped enough of a placing at Nationals to qualify for these games by the barest margin. 

Yuri tilted his head, inspecting his reflection once more as he buttoned the shirt. At twenty-seven, he’d be the oldest figure skater at this Olympics, unless you counted the _ice dancers_. Still, he didn’t think it showed in his face or his body, only in his accomplishments. With a senior career that spanned twelve seasons and four Worlds golds, the kids coming into seniors couldn’t hope to rip him off the podium until he was good and ready. 

The latch on the bathroom door clicked, and Vitya stepped out, his hair swaddled on his head in a towel turban. He’d already gotten dressed in the bathroom, but his painted-on trousers and shimmering red sweater made it look more like he was heading to a club than an ISU event. Whatever. Yuri wasn’t about to start lecturing others on how to dress, considering that at the same age his idea of fashion was layering three different types of animal print.

He watched Victor dig through his bag for a comb. As the boy shifted the items in his duffel, the overhead light caught on something silver, which brought up a thought he’d had lurking in the back of his mind since Yakov first dropped Victor off. “Did you participate in the team event?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Victor smiled and fished out the silver medal, holding it to the light. “Just the short program, though. Georgi skated in the free.”

“Who won gold?” Yuri watched as Victor caught the medal in his other hand, running his thumb along the outer edge. 

“Canada,” Victor responded, shrugging. “Their ice dancers are really good.”

Yuri snorted and began to dig through his own bag. The apartment probably provided a hair dryer, but his was better. “Are you proud you got that silver medal at your first Olympics?” he asked, looking up to see Victor smiling and nodding enthusiastically. 

“Don’t be.” He watched the smile drop off the boy’s face. “Don’t listen to what Yakov says, all that ‘do the skating you like best’ crap? Anything less than gold is trash.” He finally located his hair dryer and grabbed it, balling the cord up in his fist. “You wanted advice from the champion, right? There’s your advice.” 

Yuri closed the bathroom door behind himself, plugged in the dryer, and flipped the switch to high heat. If he made the kid cry, he didn’t want to have to listen to it.

-

Yuri grabbed a drink from a passing silver tray and slotted himself into a corner with his glass. The ISU had rented out an entire hotel ballroom for the occasion, and the room was steeped in the metallic scent of money and old blood, even compared to other sponsor events. Yuri threw his head back, draining half his champagne in a single gulp. There was no reason for him to circulate with the brown-nosers at this point in his career. He had more sponsors than he needed already. The children could feel free to fight over his scraps.

He narrowed his eyes to peer through the dim lighting in the corner. The center of the room pooled with sparkling lights where the officials and sponsors circled, blinding the young skaters with their sequins and jewels and bubbling, bright-colored elixirs. Vitya’s distinctive silver hair caught the light as he leaned in to speak with a crocodile-toothed older woman in a red dress, and Yuri turned away, reminding himself once more that he wasn’t here to babysit. If Vitya was going to get himself in trouble, Yakov could deal with it.

He kept to his niche, trying to dull the roar of gossip, bullshit, and silverware clinking against glass with a warm blanket of champagne. The stream of useless chatter swirled around him, and he picked bits from the flood only rarely. He heard his own name being sprinkled about and tilted his head that direction, but it was only some bitter asshole complaining about how Yuri _destroyed_ him at Rostelecom last season.

“- a quad loop, really?” 

Yuri’s eyes narrowed at the words, out of place among all the usual crap.

The speaker was a blonde woman in a tailored black dress standing a short distance away. The angle of her head, her jewelry, and the height of her heels marked her as money. Her companion had a battered brown suit and a flashy badge on - press.

“Yeah,” the reporter said. “From Altin, supposedly. I’ll believe it when I see it, but rumor is he’s landing it in practice about forty percent of the time.”

“Isn’t Plisetsky supposed to be working on that one too?” The woman again. “I remember hearing something a few seasons ago.”

“He’s had injuries since then.” The reporter’s dismissive tone made Yuri’s fingers tighten on the stem of his champagne flute. “He was only getting it on twenty percent of attempts, and that was when he was Altin’s age. We won’t be seeing any new jumps from that corner this year. Probably ever. Believe me, Plisetsky’s days are numbered with those low PCS scores. As soon as one of these younger skaters gets the slightest technical edge, he’ll fall off the podium.”

Yuri glared down at his glass. He did still train the loop, actually, but it hadn’t ever been a twenty percent success rate. It was more like _twelve_. He’d been chasing that fucking jump since he was barely out of juniors, and now what? Had someone else actually beat him to it?

 _Altin_. He combed through his memory to pull up a fading image of dark, close-cropped hair and an impressively reliable quad sal. Otabek Altin, twenty-three years old and from Kazakhstan, of all places. He’d been a solid competitor as a junior and managed to escape that class just before Yakov’s precious Vitya swooped in and destroyed it.

He hadn’t made much of a splash in his senior debut - whatever he’d done between ages seventeen and twenty was a big blank spot in Yuri’s memory - but in the past few years Yuri could recall seeing him on the podium a few times.

Well. If the money or the press knew anything - and they usually didn’t - then Altin would be the one Yuri needed to keep an eye on for the competition. 

Yuri scanned the crowd, comparing each black-haired man he spotted to the blurry, backlit image in his mind. That one was too old, the next was too tall, and so on. If he’d arrived in PyeongChang, Altin would have to be at the reception, wouldn’t he? He likely couldn’t afford to miss out on any chance to get additional sponsors.

Yuri stopped as one particular face caught his attention. The first flag was the trendy haircut and below that, a strangely familiar jawline. Could be? The man was standing with a few other skaters Yuri recognized only vaguely, so he watched and waited until his prey turned his head to another angle. 

Yes. That was Altin. 

He was shorter than Yuri remembered, but then it was hard to judge an opponent’s height from the top of the podium. 

He plotted a course across the room. Conveniently, it allowed him to cut right between the two gossips who tipped him off to begin with. As he passed them, Yuri handed the reporter his empty champagne flute, meeting his eyes deliberately and holding until the other man looked away.

Altin had his back turned, so the other skaters saw Yuri coming first. They went quiet as he closed in. One - Japanese junior skater, his mind supplied - made a noise not unlike a squeak. Yuri felt his mouth twitch.

“Did I kill the mood?” He asked as the others stared, and he waited for Altin to turn around.

A few of the younger skaters shook their heads, and then Altin looked back to see who was speaking. His eyes were darker than Yuri expected, a warm chocolatey shade that softened the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

“Mind if I join you?” Though Yuri’s words were directed at the group, he had eyes only for Altin, watching his face, his hands, his posture, and looking for any clue that might reveal itself about his competitor.

The others nodded, mute, but Altin’s face never so much as twitched. Snapping his fingers, Yuri summoned a fresh drink, then took his place among the semi-circle of skaters. They were quiet at first. A couple were particularly wide-eyed, nearly paralyzed by fear. But, after a few sips of liquid courage, the tension loosened, and they slowly slipped back into their usual small talk of rinks and coaches and _ohmygodwe’reattheOlympicsyouguys_. Yuri leaned back until his shoulders met wallpaper. Same shit, different wall.

He kept his responses to grunts and shrugs when necessary, and he kept his eyes on Altin. 

The man was certainly popular enough among the younger skaters, although he wasn’t talkative himself. When the Japanese boy - Katsuki, Yuri quickly learned - got close to tears while confessing he was still struggling with a combination jump in his free program, Altin stayed calm, found him a napkin, and gave quiet, reasonable advice that might actually help the kid’s orientation on the rink. Where some of the other male skaters tended to be hot-headed and impulsive off the ice, Altin had a maturity that set him apart and made him seem older than his twenty-three years.

A curious detail was beginning to pull at Yuri’s attention - whenever he turned away, _Altin_ began watching _him_. Though peripheral, the looks were unmistakable. Yuri turned back quickly, and Altin’s eyes darted away. His face was serene and flat. He didn’t blush or stutter, but without a doubt, his eye was on Yuri. Was he evaluating the competition as well, or was he just another fan, intimidated in the champion’s presence? Yuri made a note to find out.

He allowed the conversation to ebb around him. A coach came to retrieve first one skater, then another, and the group gradually dispersed until only a few remained in the circle. Then Katsuki, in the middle of rattling off some type of tourism advertisement for his family’s hotel, suddenly broke, mouth stretched wide as he yawned loudly.

His jaw snapped shut, and he flushed. “Ah, excuse me,” he begged, voice and English both breaking on the syllables. “I should go to bed.”

The room was quiet now. A few officials, coaches, and sponsors were still mingling in the corners, speaking quietly amongst themselves, but most of the athletes had vanished into their rooms or, undoubtedly, to the nearest local bars. 

“Is your coach still here?” Altin asked. Katsuki didn’t even look around the room before shaking his head.

Yuri felt a stab of frustration. What kind of coach left a sixteen year-old kid alone at this kind of event? When Yuri was that age… well. That was a long time ago. He’d admit that things had changed, although not as much as he’d like.

“I can walk you back to your room,” Otabek said, breaking Yuri from his thoughts. Katsuki opened his mouth to respond, but Yuri butted in.

“I’ll come too,” he volunteered. 

Altin’s eyebrows raised - the biggest reaction Yuri had seen from him all night - and Katsuki went first white, then pink before stuttering a hesitant thank you. 

This didn’t count as babysitting. Yuri just wasn’t done watching Altin yet.

Whatever had prompted Katsuki’s chatty mood before. It dried up and blew away in the icy wind that hit as soon as the three of them stepped outside. It was freezing out, even by Russian standards, and the wide streets of PyeongChang were dark, illuminated only sporadically with pools of yellow light. There was no conversation on the walk to the Japanese athletes’ housing, only the distant, happy calls of raucous drunks spilling into the streets and the clarion shrill of horns and sirens. 

They didn’t have far to go, but by the time they dropped the kid off, he was visibly shivering beneath his too-thin coat, a wool beanie pulled down almost over his eyes.

Katsuki nodded when Otabek wished him a good night, then looked to Yuri as if expecting the same treatment. Yuri watched him shake, then looped the scarf from around his neck and wrapped it around the kid instead. Stupid teenagers, never prepared for the weather. Katsuki’s eyes were wide as spotlights.

“What?” Yuri snapped, pulling his shoulders up to ears to break the wind now tickling his bare neck. “You want us to tuck you in, too? Ask your coach, maybe at the same time you ask him what the hell he’s thinking, leaving you at that party on your own.”

Katsuki bit his lip as he wrapped his hands in the trailing ends of the scarf, then nodded once before dashing off into the towering apartment building. 

Yuri glanced over to find Otabek staring at him again. “Now what?” he muttered.

“That was nice. And it’s the most you’ve said to anyone tonight.” Altin’s voice was nonchalant, but in the incandescent lights of the village, Yuri could see a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“I talk,” Yuri said, defensive. 

“I know you do.”

Silence settled in between them, and Yuri jerked his head toward his own building, looming like a uniformed guard at the end of the street ahead. “That’s mine.”

“Mine too,” Altin said.

Perfect. 

They continued walking side by side down the the empty street, still silent, until frustration began to twist into knots in Yuri’s chest. The man was too damn quiet. Yuri hated small talk, and he didn’t want some obnoxious loudmouth talking his ear off, but fuck, he was getting nowhere with this. So far all he’d learned about Altin was that the man had pretty eyes and an abundance of caution.

He looked over and saw Otabek pause for a moment as they passed beneath a cluster of flag poles, staring up at the illuminated Olympic flag as it whipped and snapped in the wind.

“This is your first Olympics?” He asked.

Otabek shook his head. “I was at Sochi.” Damn. Yuri probably should have known that. “But four years ago was a different time,” he said. “I was a different skater.”

Yuri remembered Sochi well - the thrill of finally arriving at the Olympics, and then the mounting frustration as, no matter how he pushed, small elements slipped by him, just shy of perfect. His boots had been too new, not broken in. He hadn’t slept well. He’d been sick on the plane.

In the end, he’d fought his way onto the podium, but only by a couple points. International papers still liked to us the photo of him from that day in their articles, and it was more revealing than he’d like to admit. In it, Yuri stood on the lowest step, holding his bronze medal out like a soiled diaper and glaring daggers at the gold and silver medalists above. It was a look that screamed, _I’m coming for you._ They’d both retired since, but not before he’d handed them their own asses at World’s more than once.

Wherever Altin was four years ago, he wasn’t on that podium. 

“It’s still huge for me,” Altin said quietly. “Even though I’ve been before. For Kazakhstan, having athletes representing the nation on a stage like this is a miracle every time. I can’t forget that.” 

Yuri wasn’t sure how to respond to the fond, wistful notes that crept into Otabek’s voice when he spoke about his home country. Thankfully, he didn’t have to, as Otabek continued. 

“I want to build a rink in Kazakhstan someday, state of the art. When I was first starting to compete, we only had this tiny old rink outside my neighborhood. I had no regular coach. My father and I would lug this little TV from the house down to the rink, and I’d watch recordings of other skaters over and over, trying to mimic their movements in slow motion.” 

He glanced over at Yuri then, and his eyes were black beneath long lashes. “Yours were my favorite,” he admitted. “I admired you.”

“Yeah?” Yuri said. “How many posters did you have on your bedroom walls?” Otabek was silent, his face flushed - shame, or just the wind burnishing them? “What did you like about my skating? Why was I your favorite model?”

Otabek briskly rubbed his gloved fingers on his face to warm his skin. “It was perfect,” he answered. No shame, then. “You were like a razor. When you jump, there’s a precision to it that someone could set their watch by. You never settled for _almost_ good enough. Even before you’d step onto the ice, you entered the rink as if dressing for battle, like a soldier.”

Oh. Altin was more than just another fan of Yuri’s, then. 

People had told Yuri they wanted his ass in a lot of different ways through the years, but "You were like a soldier" was a new one.

He eyed the athlete housing, approaching all too quickly now, and a storm began to gather strength in the recesses of his mind. Otabek was looking at him again when he thought Yuri couldn’t see it, and now Yuri knew what that meant. His competitor not only worshipped him as a hero, he thought Yuri was _hot_.

The clouds within him burgeoned, darker and swirling as they gained strength. When was the last time he’d gotten fucked, anyway? He’d been training so steadily in the past several months, trying to make sure everything was perfected before the games. Certain other things had fallen off the map, as they tended to do when there was a medal at stake.

Altin seemed up for it, and if the hook-up also distracted him, threw him off his game even a bit, well, that was a bonus. Yuri shivered a little, delighted more than he was chilled. He was already feeling warmer beneath his coat.

They squeezed through the front door, into the sparse lobby, and Yuri yanked off his gloves, flexing and breathing on his fingers to help them thaw. 

“It was nice talking to you,” Otabek said, extending his own, still-gloved hand to shake.

Yuri reached out, pinching the tip of one of Altin’s fingers, and pulled off his glove. Then, he accepted the offer, palm to icy palm.

“What floor are you on?” Yuri asked.

“Second.” Altin glanced down at their joined hands. His brow furrowed.

“I’m on the eighth,” Yuri said.

Nothing. Otabek’s skin was beginning to lose its chill against his own. He made a token attempt to reclaim his hand, but Yuri only dug in his claws and held on. 

“Do you want to come up?” Yuri prompted. God, was the man stupid or just willfully dense? Or, maybe he wasn’t interested. That would be surprising, even a little disappointing now that Yuri had his heart set on getting off with company. But, despite rumors to the contrary, straight men did exist in figure skating. 

Otabek shifted on his feet but didn’t try to withdraw his hand again. “It’s getting pretty late,” he said. “We should probably get some sleep to avoid jet lag.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Yuri was far too old to be playing these stupid word games.

Instead, he pulled Otabek forward until the man stumbled, almost falling against him, and Yuri was able to lean down. He intended seductive and tempting. What actually happened, as Altin turned his head and opened his mouth to say something - probably another stupid question - was that Yuri landed the faintest, gentle, tight-lipped kiss at the corner of Otabek’s mouth.

He pulled away, irritated. He wasn’t some teenage girl nervously darting in to kiss her first crush under the bleachers. This shit was getting ridiculous.

But, looking down at the other man, he revised his opinion. Otabek’s eyes were wide, his lips parted still in surprise. The look he was now aiming at Yuri’s mouth was something a few millimeters shy of awe.

Yuri had the impulse to smirk and didn’t bother to resist it. “Do you want to come up?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Otabek breathed. His hand was hesitant and light on Yuri’s waist as he leaned up onto his toes, and Yuri stepped in closer, encouraging. 

Their mouths met properly this time, heads tilted for the right angle, but still too dry, too _sweet_ as Otabek’s lips slid over his own. Yuri clutched at him, one hand sliding up through the fresh shave on Otabek’s neck, tangling in that satisfyingly long black hair at the top. He tugged, tilting Otabek’s head back further and pressing, demanding access the other man’s mouth.

A quiet, surprised sound signaled Otabek’s surrender, and any reluctance fled his body as his grip on Yuri’s waist firmed and drifted downward. The feeling of fingers digging into his ass was a green light for Yuri, and heat flooded through him in response as the rest of him woke to what was happening. He pulled away with a final nip to Altin’s pleasingly plump lower lip and paused for a moment to admire the thoroughly debauched look of the other man’s mouth, ruddy and slick from attention. He reached up to trace his thumb over the shallow imprint of his own teeth. 

Yuri nodded toward the elevators, and Altin followed. Yuri’s blood was humming now, and he tapped his fingers on the wall behind him as he waited for the car to ascend. 

Otabek was staring again, and it was certainly no secret why. Yuri had expected him to cling like a drunk groupie staking a claim of ownership, but he maintained his own space. His eyes were claiming enough - hot and dark and appraising, lingering on the juncture of Yuri’s jawline and promising _something_.

Whatever it was, Yuri hoped it was rough. 

The elevator dinged an eternity later, announcing their arrival on the eighth floor. As they stepped off, Otabek seized his hand, clutching at him like a nervous kid on a first date. Yuri suppressed the impulse to shake off his grip. He’d always been picky about who got to touch him and when, but a little hand-holding action wouldn’t hurt if it got Altin back to his room faster.

He almost laughed as they approached the door together, but he muffled it into a cough, unwilling to explain the thought that had so entertained him. In the proud tradition of the undercover Russian honeypot, here was Yuri Plisetsky, setting up for a bang and burn.

He tapped his electronic key, and the door popped open. Vitya was sitting cross-legged on his bed, illuminated by the blueish light of the television. His ridiculous hair was coiled up in a messy bun, and he was already changed into a pair of snowflake-patterned flannel pajama pants. When he caught sight of Otabek entering alongside Yuri, he looked puzzled. Then, he noticed their clasped hands and his blue eyes widened.

“Get out,” Yuri said. “I need the room.”

“Get out?” Victor parroted, voice rising in indignation. “But I’m in my pajamas. We have practice tomorrow!”

“I don't care.” Yuri marched past the bed and began unzipping his coat. “Go stay in Yakov’s room or something.”

Victor looked back and forth between Yuri and Otabek as if still putting together the puzzle. It shouldn't be that difficult. It was, at best, a two-piece puzzle.

“Yakov snores,” Victor grumbled.

Otabek was still lingering in the doorway, looking more and more dubious of his choice as the conversation dragged on. That wasn't good. Once the real competition started, Yuri wouldn't have a second chance at this plan. 

“Don't worry about it,” Altin told Vitya. “We can find somewhere else to go, I'm sure, or,” he looked up at Yuri, “We don't have to-”

Before he could finish that suggestion, Yuri pulled his wallet from his pocket and grabbed the wad of bills he'd exchanged at the airport. He scattered the cash across Vitya’s bed like glitter. 

“There,” he said. “Go buy a burger, or a souvenir, or something. I don't care what you do as long as you're not back in the next hour.”

He looked across the room at the bare centimeters of tempting gold skin at the base of Otabek’s throat and corrected himself. “Make it an hour and a half.”

Vitya hopped off the bed and shrugged into his coat, freeing his hair from its elastic to tuck it around his neck like a scarf. He grabbed the cash from the comforter and stuffed it into his pockets on his way out the door. 

Altin muttered an apology as he passed, and Vitya stopped, his hand on the door knob. “Don't fuck on my bed, please,” he said, and then he was gone.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Yuri dropped his coat to the floor and began to unbutton his shirt. He shrugged out of it, then turned to check on his conquest for the evening.

Altin was still lingering on the other side of the room, his coat zipped to the neck, and staring as if he’d never seen Yuri’s bare chest before. The idea was laughable. Yuri was photographed shirtless for at least a dozen magazines, plus a few other things. _Thousands_ of people had seen his nipples.

“Are you waiting for a hand-written invitation?” he asked. Altin’s head jerked in response, eyes still wide and a little unfocused. Yuri prompted him again. “Are you getting undressed, or is this a one-man show?”

The response was mumbled, inaudible from across the room, but it must have been an affirmative, as Altin finally unzipped his coat.

It was Yuri’s turn to stop and watch. He’d been eyeing Altin up as a competitor before, not as a potential sexual partner, and the qualities he looked for in each didn’t fully overlap. Now that the situation had changed, he found himself reconsidering the body that was slowly being revealed. Even hidden beneath a dress shirt and ill-fitting slacks, Altin’s broad chest was writing promises that Yuri only prayed it would keep. 

His motives here might not be pure enjoyment, but if they could both get a really satisfying fuck out of this too, that would be its own sweet little victory.

He pulled himself away from the strip show to skim out of his own remaining clothes. Bare to the world, he turned back to where Altin was still hopping out of his socks, cursing under his breath.

Otabek finished disrobing and stood, eyes wide as a mouse in a lion’s den. Fuck, he was gorgeous, though. The golden skin and broad shoulders that Yuri had found so intriguing when clothed were fulfilling all his current fantasies, plus a few he didn’t know he had. Then, Otabek turned to drop his last sock in the chair with the rest of his clothes, and Yuri saw the way his hips swiveled, the curve of an incredibly pert ass - _Fuck_. Why didn’t he hook up with competitors more often? Were the others all built like they were engineered for sex too?

When he turned back around - disappointing, since Yuri lost his new favorite view - there was nothing secretive about the way his eyes dropped to Yuri’s cock, and nothing subtle in the way his tongue flicked out, wetting his lips as if advertising the option. 

It was a good option.

Yuri stepped in close, putting a deliberate twist to his hips as he walked. He stopped, his own bare flesh millimeters from Altin’s body, so close he could feel the heat rising from the other man’s skin. He tilted his head, waiting. He could make the first move - reach out and skim his fingers across one of those tempting brown nipples, or maybe get a hand on that ass and practice the way he wanted to be gripping it as Otabek plowed into him later - but there was a old, ugly part of Yuri that liked to be taken, lifted, _put_ in his place. If he played his cards right, he knew exactly how to get that reaction.

He tilted his head and stared at Altin’s mouth. They were standing so close that when his cock twitched, the head brushed a wet trail across the other man’s stomach. Altin sucked in an shuddering breath, and Yuri bit his lip. He looked at Altin through half-lidded eyes, as if to say, _You want it? Come get it._

The message got through.

Otabek’s fingers sank into his hair, gripping at the back of his skull with a pull so sweet it was pretty much automatic for Yuri’s mouth to fall open in response. Before he could make a sound, Otabek was already there to catch it, his teeth scraping over Yuri’s tongue. He tasted like champagne and peppermint candy, and when Yuri kissed back he made a high, surprised sound deep in his throat that went straight to Yuri’s dick.

He tugged against the hold Otabek had on him, leaning down despite the burn in his scalp to get both hands on that ass and squeeze. The moan that earned him was muffled by his own lips, and his hips twitched in response. His cock rubbed against the winter-chilled skin of Altin’s stomach, and he pulled back, gasping at the sensation.

It made just enough space between them for Altin to drop to his knees.

Well, that hadn’t been on the agenda, but far be it from Yuri to say no to a willing mouth. He sank his hands into the longer black strands at the top of the other man’s head and felt fire kindle in his belly as those pink lips parted to take him in.

Yuri’s eyes fell closed under the onslaught of wet heat, and he turned his head away, muffling a groan into his shoulder. He’d known from the kissing that Altin’s tongue would win awards in the right context. _Gold star_ , if not a gold medal.

Forcing his eyes open, he turned back. Beneath his hand, Otabek’s eyes were soft and narrowed as he stared up at Yuri, dark irises nearly swallowed by the black. It was a punch in the gut - pleasure edged with gratitude and tinged with something that verged on worship.

Yuri’s hand tightened in Otabek’s hair. He tested his welcome with a slow, easy thrust, and Altin only closed his eyes, moaning around his cock. It wasn’t more than hot; it was addictive, begging him to repeat. Yuri could come like this all too quickly, nothing but lazy thrusts against that roving tongue and those dark eyes fluttering up at him, adoration peeking from beneath the lust. But that wasn’t in the plan. Altin was supposed to enjoy himself, sure, but Yuri needed him more than bare, wanted him stripped open and cut to ribbons, his ribs spread and everything exposed and built to shatter.

With a last, shuddering thrust, Yuri pulled Altin’s head away until he popped out, back into the cold air of the apartment.

“Something wrong?” Altin’s voice was always a bit husky, and there was no reason for that to be Yuri’s fault, but it still sent a spark of need gliding up his spine.

“I have other plans,” Yuri said, honest enough. 

That look was back again - too much, too interested. At least when Altin was sucking him off, Yuri could pretend that expression was caused by arousal and not just - just _Yuri_.

He turned, leaving Altin kneeling, and yanked open the bedside drawer. A fucking _Bible_ stared up at him in the otherwise empty space. He went to the bathroom, rummaged through the cabinets. Nothing. Seriously? All the damn media frenzy about how many free condoms the Olympics gave out, and Yuri was about to have to run to the first aid station in the middle of the night for supplies. He was already wilting at the thought. If the wait didn’t wreck the mood, then the cold weather would.

When he got back into the bedroom, Altin was perched on the edge of the bed, looking more disturbed than aroused. “You curse a _lot_ ,” he said, sounding almost impressed. 

Yuri shrugged, unzipping his duffel and fishing around in the smaller pockets as a last resort. “I guess,” he said. 

“You don’t curse that much in interviews.”

That made him pause. He looked up at the mirror only the wall, peering at Otabek’s reflection. He wasn’t quite blushing, but he wasn’t looking at Yuri either, even though Yuri was currently bent over the table, assets on full display and rummaging through his things for _fucking condoms_.

“The press cuts it out,” Yuri muttered. They’d had to start when he was thirteen. It was old hat by now. His fingers brushed the corner of something sharp and jagged. _Finally._

He tossed the condom and a couple sachets of lube onto the bed with a proud smirk.

Altin looked at the items on the bed, then back to Yuri. There was a disgruntled little crease between his heavy brows, like an exclamation mark of protest. “We’re skating tomorrow,” he said. 

“It’s just practice,” Yuri countered. “Believe me, if you want my ass to be sore enough tomorrow to fuck up my practice, you’re welcome to try.” He flopped back onto the hideous comforter and spread his legs in blatant invitation. “But you’ll have to work pretty hard if you expect to set any records here.”

Yuri picked up the condom and wagged it in the air until Otabek plucked it from between his fingers. He was still frowning like the little foil envelope had kicked his dog.

“Are you sure?”

In response, Yuri grabbed one of the lube packets and tore it open with his teeth - mm, strawberry. He slicked his fingers, staring up at Otabek in deliberate challenge, then rolled onto his stomach and stuck his ass in the air. 

Going for it with two fingers right off the bat was maybe not the smartest part of his plan, but it was effective. He bit his lip and buried his forehead against the pillow, waiting for the burn of the first stretch to recede to a throb. He’d been ready to go a few minutes ago, but the detour of hunting for supplies had caused his enthusiasm to wane. At first, there wasn’t room for anything in his head besides mild discomfort and the strange sensation of his body telling him that something did not belong.

He heard Otabek suck in a shuddering breath as Yuri flexed his fingers. That soft, helpless noise was sexier than any porn star moan, and arousal sparked at the base of his spine. Oh, yeah. _This_ was why he was putting on a show. Yuri flexed again, then began to finger himself in earnest - a slow, careful thrust in, then all the way out, circling the rim with a single fingertip before twisting his wrist to push in again. A weight sank the mattress behind him, shifting the angle, and he hissed as his fingers shifted unexpectedly.

Fingering himself, especially at this angle, was fun, but far more frustrating than satisfying. It was a tease, little more than a preview of what he really wanted. Long as his fingers were, he couldn’t get the right angle to find his prostate or the speed he’d soon be aching for. 

He could feel Otabek settling in closer, knees brushing Yuri’s calves as he crawled over for a better view. Yuri pulled his fingers from himself with a shake of his hips and tossed his hair over his shoulder as he looked back at the man behind him. He let his eyes linger, tracing a slow path from Otabek’s broad chest down the midline of his abs before finally settling on his cock, proud and dark with blood where it nestled in a thatch of black hair. It twitched as Yuri stared, begging for more of his attention. 

Licking his lips, Yuri met Otabek’s eyes deliberately through his lashes. He’d been told this was a very sexy look.

“I’m ready,” he said. His voice sounded throaty, laced with desire even to his own ears. He _must_ have been overdue for a fuck if he was already this thirsty for it. Otabek scooted even closer, and Yuri turned, burying his face in the pillow in anticipation. Altin was thick, and Yuri couldn’t actually remember exactly how long it had been. He didn’t want Altin to turn tail and run if there was a twinge of pain in his expression.

He tensed up as he felt a hand press between his shoulder blades and had to force himself to relax as Altin stroked down his spine. No doubt it was meant to be soothing, but it wasn’t doing anything to distract Yuri from what he knew was about to happen, and his stomach tightened with a stew of excitement and apprehension.

A finger traced the edge of his hole, and he shuddered. Damnit. He’d done this already. What was the fucker waiting for?

Otabek breached him with two slick fingers, and Yuri cried out, muffling the noise into the pillow. He turned his head, ready to demand that Otabek cut to the chase and fuck him already, but another steady thrust drove the words from his mouth, forcing out a low groan instead. 

God, Altin’s fingers were filling him up just right - thicker than his own, and Altin had the right leverage to make each thrust seem brutally thorough. His pace was slow, and Yuri’s earlier attempts made the slide long and easy. Altin’s knuckles dragged along the bumps and curves inside Yuri’s bond, electrifying every nerve as he drove his fingers into Yuri with an almost religious devotion to the exercise. 

Each delicious, methodical thrust drove another sound from Yuri’s open mouth as he hung his head, helpless against the onslaught of sensation. He would try to compose himself, gather some words, a command, and then Otabek would slide in again, fingertips skimming deliberately across Yuri’s prostate, and he’d lose himself to the surge of burning pleasure.

He surrendered. There was no plan, no deliberation left in his head, only the hot press of Otabek’s hands in and against his flesh. 

At some point, he found words - garbled Russian babbling, a combination of curses intermingled with insults and _пожалуйста_ and English, _fuck me_. The stream of dialogue seemed to have no effect on Altin whatsoever, and it did nothing to speed the relentless pressure of his fingers inside Yuri.

If anything, he slowed further, reducing Yuri to a tortured moan. Otabek’s other hand was hot and heavy at the base of base of Yuri’s spine, holding him in place as Yuri twitched and spasmed, desperate to thrust back against him. 

Then Otabek pushed him _down_ and the dripping head of Yuri’s cock pushed into the cool, rough fabric of the bedspread - once, twice, and then the game was soon over. He came, shaking, burying the half-sobbed sounds in his throat in the cheap pillows.

When he came back to himself, he was gasping, and the muscles in his thighs were still jumping, twitching through the aftershock. His face was wet. Fuck. He’d have to chalk that up to saliva from his open mouth for the sake of his own sanity. 

Otabek’s fingers slid out, leaving Yuri sensitive and gasping and also fucking _empty_. 

“Sorry.” Otabek’s voice was thick with lust, and now that his brain was working again, Yuri could feel the hot, hard line of a cock pressed against the back of his thigh. “I got kind of carried away there. Are you okay?”

Yuri fisted the pillowcase tight and turned his head to be certain his words would be clear. “I will be better,” he growled. “When you _fuck me_.”

He had a plan, damn it. If Otabek asked him if he was _sure_ about this _one more time_ , Yuri was going to kick him in the dick. 

But the only answer he got was the return of that hand to his hip, holding him tight, and then the thick head of Altin’s cock was dragging across his sensitive hole.

He could feel himself opening slowly, stretching to allow Altin in, and now he did wince. With the urgency of orgasm gone, he was over-sensitive, and all he got as Altin pushed in was heat and fullness and drag - a burn that edged on painful, but no spark. Yuri stretched out across the pillow, arms overhead, and embraced the focus that came back with the discomfort.

He stared at the bumps on the wall, trying to focus on something else as Altin began to thrust. Was Altin going to be the sort of hook-up who wanted to hang around afterward, to _cuddle_? It would be more than a little annoying if he velcroed himself to Yuri. Altin was supposed to be distracted by the sex, put off his game, but - Yuri broke off his train of thought to hiss as the cock inside him struck a particular sensitive area, and his own cock twitched in a game attempt to rise from the dead. 

His amusement at that was quickly swallowed by something less pleasant as his mind circled back to the previous track. The last thing he needed during the Olympics was for the other man to become _attached_. He should have considered this more - what would happen if Altin caught feelings, exactly? He was competition, and Yuri needed him out of commission there, but he didn’t seem like a bad guy.

It’d be easier to hurt him if he weren’t so fucking nice.

Abruptly, Altin stopped moving and withdrew, weight shifting on the mattress.

“What-?” Yuri started to ask, but before he could finish, he was being turned, rolled onto his back to meet near-black eyes. Otabek was panting, and his forehead shone with sweat as he stared down at Yuri. 

Yuri’s tongue slipped out without his permission, gliding over his bottom lip, and Otabek reached up, his thumb tracing the path. Arousal began to warm Yuri’s blood again. This view was much better than the plain walls of the apartment. Without a word, Otabek leaned down and yanked Yuri’s legs up onto his shoulders, bending him smoothly in half. His fingers dug into the spare flesh on Yuri’s hips as he lifted, and then Otabek’s cock pressed into him again.

Without the pillow to muffle him, the high-pitched noise that escaped Yuri’s lips echoed in the otherwise quiet room. Otabek’s first short thrust forced a repeat, then another. Yuri scrambled, clawing at the other man’s broad shoulders as his dick twitched and stiffened, smearing his stomach with the residue of his last orgasm.

“Holy shit,” he gasped. Altin’s lips quirked, a not-quite smile that verged on smug, and Yuri grabbed him by the back of his neck, tugging his head down to erase the look with lips and teeth. His next groan was lost in the kiss as Otabek’s steady thrusts gradually made him see stars.

Whatever thoughts he’d had before were methodically fucked right out of his head, lost in a swirl of _now_ and _fuck, yes_ and _just like that_. During a brief moment of clarity, it occurred to him that he must be clawing the shit out of Otabek’s shoulders, but none of the quiet, fascinating noises spilling from Otabek’s lips sounded like complaints.

When Yuri closed his fist tight around his own cock at last, his hand still tacky with drying lube, it was almost painful. His heels drummed against Altin’s back as he thrust up into his own hand again and again, driving toward something that felt just out of reach. The new angle sent up sparks on the backs of his eyelids when Otabek rammed into him, relentless. As he came, his cock barely dribbled, coating his fingers with a hard-won second orgasm.

He clenched down on Altin deliberately, pushing past the soreness before it could begin to settle in his body, and the other man shuddered, burying his face in Yuri’s shoulder. His fingers pressed bruises into Yuri’s hips and thighs as he shook himself apart with a low groan.

There was a brief moment of relaxation, warmth, peace. 

Then, all the less pleasant post-orgasm feelings sank in.

Yuri’s skin began to crawl. He was abruptly too hot beneath Altin’s drooping weight - sticky, stretched out and trapped. He pushed at Altin’s shoulders, demanding his freedom, and shuddered, clutching at the ruined bedspread as Altin withdrew his softening cock and rolled to the other side of the bed. 

Silence settled over them as the chilled air prickled Yuri’s skin. Over the quiet rattle of the apartment’s heating unit, Altin began to laugh. It was a warm, throaty sound, and Yuri rolled onto his side to see what was so funny. Otabek stopped chuckling at the look on his face. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said quickly. He was reclining back on Yuri’s bed like he belonged there, utterly unaware of how ridiculous he looked: olive skin and muscle stretched out on the fuschia comforter, and a limp, used condom still crowning his dick. “I just had one of those ridiculous post-sex thoughts, you know?”

“No,” Yuri said, maybe too sharp. “What kind of thought?”

Otabek stretched his arms up, folding them behind his head and putting himself on further display. It might have been tempting if Yuri weren’t already exhausted and sore. He might be ready for sex again sometime _next week_. 

“I have a little sister,” Otabek said. “Rayana. She’s sixteen. She watches all the competitions, and she’s even got posters of you on her bedroom wall.” Otabek’s lip quirked. “Some of them she got from me.”

He paused, waiting to see if Yuri latched onto that, but he didn’t bite. It would sound narcissistic to say it out loud, but lots of people had posters of Yuri in their rooms. It wasn’t unusual, especially not coming from a younger skater. If he’d had a dependable room to hang them in, Yuri no doubt would have had skating posters as a novice too.

“Anyway,” Otabek continued. “She was excited when she realized we might be skating in the same group here. She told me to get her an autograph, so when we,” he gestures between them, bodies still nude and cum drying on Yuri’s stomach. “My first thought after was, ‘Is this a bad time to ask for an autograph?’”

Yuri snorted. “Yes.” He rolled to the other side of the bed to stand and grabbed a notepad from the dresser. With a practiced flourish, he signed his name right beneath the printed Olympic rings, then folded the note up and dropped it on Altin’s discarded clothes. 

When he turned back, Altin was still laid out in the same position, watching Yuri move. 

“Thanks. I won’t tell her how I got it.”

“Tell her whatever you want,” Yuri shrugged. Without the warm fuzz of arousal curtaining him, he was too exposed beneath Altin’s eyes. He had to hold his arms stiff at his sides, resisting the impulse to fold them over his chest and cover himself. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said. He could feel the drying cum and lube pulling at his skin.

“Okay,” Altin said, still not budging from the spot he’d claimed. “Can I stay here, or do you need me to leave?”

Like Yuri had suspected - a nice guy. “Surprise me,” he said, knowing that Altin already had.

If he had anything else to say, Yuri shut it away on the other side of the bathroom door. He turned on both taps at the sink and splashed the icy water over his face as he waited for the shower to heat up. When he met his own eyes in the mirror as he wiped his face, he looked no different than before - tired, frustrated, and too old to be here.

The shower began to steam, and he twisted his hair up out of the way before he stepped inside to wash the evening away. He watched the water sluice off his skin and swirl over the pristine white porcelain floor, and wondered again what the fuck he’d been thinking. Yakov always said he was too impulsive.

He shut off the water and stepped out into the clouded bathroom, then tied a towel firmly around his waist. He couldn’t let Altin stay the night. Maybe he could use Vitya as an excuse - the teenager would be back eventually, and that would make things turn awkward fast.

But, when he peered into the chill air of the bedroom, every trace of Altin’s presence was already long gone. Vitya was back on the other bed, lying down in his pajamas with his legs crossed at the ankle and a pair of overpriced designer headphones covering half his head. He glanced over as Yuri emerged from the bathroom, but otherwise didn’t move. 

Well, he _had_ told Altin to surprise him. He felt a rock sink into the pit of his stomach as he pulled on a pair of boxers. He couldn’t be disappointed. He _hated_ sleeping with others around. He must not be able to tolerate champagne like he used to. 

Without bothering to say anything to his roommate, he crawled into bed and switched off the lamp. He kept his eyes open to watch darkness swallow the room.

-

Yakov trailed him from the moment Yuri walked into the rink the next morning. He didn’t say anything as Yuri lugged his bag into the locker room. He remained silent as Yuri changed out of his coat, slipped into his all black practice gear, knotted his hair into a messy bun, and tied on his skates. He watched closely as Yuri walked out of the locker room and stepped onto the ice.

Finally, Yuri snapped. “Don’t you have other skaters to bother? Maybe ones who need real help?”

“Vitya is on a break,” Yakov said, leaning on the boards and extending a hand to take Yuri’s guards. “Unlike others, he was here early, before breakfast.”

Yuri’s stomach gurgled at the word, reminding him that energy packets were not real food. 

“I’m here now. Do you have instructions, or are you disowning me for having jet lag?”

“What would be the point?” Yakov sighed. “You wouldn’t listen to me anyway.” Yuri pushed off from the boards before his coach could even finish the sentence. 

“Warm up before you try anything stupid!” Yakov shouted at him from across the ice.

Yuri circled around to wave at him in acknowledgement, and another skater waved back enthusiastically. Who? The figure turned, and Yuri recognized the white and red Team Japan jacket. Oh, it was the kid - Katsuki. Well, no harm in letting him think Yuri was being friendly.

He popped in his earbuds and started his warm-up track. From the moment the first notes filtered into his ears, a veil descended. On one side was the world, Yakov, the other skaters, but on this side there was only Yuri, the music, and the feeling of ice gliding by beneath his feet.

His first loop around the rink was easy, the rhythm of movement leaping to his command, familiar as a nursery rhyme. The rink was new, different, but Yuri laughed as its textures and ridges attempted to surprise him. At its core, every arena shared the same ice.

On the second loop, he gathered speed, gaining confidence in his surroundings. He was aware enough of the other skaters and their placements on the ice to begin sprinkling in elements of his footwork, both old and new step sequences and warm-up routines pulled from the files in an order that would appear random to a casual observer. 

The third loop, he turned, setting up for an easy entry into a double toe to test. As he readied the jump, a figure at the boards caught his eye - dark hair, broad shoulders.

He stumbled before his feet could even leave the ice, arms flailing. Turning back again, he quickly scanned the faces nearby to see if any of them noticed his fumble. He could feel Yakov’s glare leaning on him across the distance, but that wasn’t unusual.

Yuri looked back over his shoulder to confirm. Altin was still there. His coach was talking his ear off about something, but the skater was leaning on the boards, nodding along absently, eyes trained on the ice. 

Shaking off the sensation of being watched, Yuri switched the track on his phone and refocused on his movements, waiting for the veil to fall back into place and cushion him from his surroundings. He slowed, entering into a camel spin, and hissed as the extension pulled at his sore muscles. He may have underestimated the effects of a round of enthusiastic sex. His legs weren’t as bendy as they used to be.

Resigned to a substandard warm-up, he skated over to the boards, pulling his phone out again to look for his practice music.

“Hi,” someone said, barely audible over the chatter of other teams and the soothing, white scratch of blades on ice. Yuri glanced up from his screen to find Katsuki seated on the bench nearby, guards on his skates and hands gripping his knees.

“Can I help you?” Yuri asked, still thumbing through his phone. Why did he have so many damn playlists? 

“No, I just- I just wanted to say hello, since you were… here.” The kid’s hands were white-knuckled on his own legs, tight enough to bruise. “Thank you, again, for walking me back last night. And for the scarf! I can return it, but-”

Yuri shrugged, trying to look disinterested as he finally located the song he needed. “Keep it. I have plenty of scarves,” he said. “Just watch your ass at those parties from now on. They start off all fancy and shit, but they can get pretty rowdy.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

Ugh, the kid was bowing - or, as close to bowing as you could get while seated. It was too much for Yuri, who pressed play on the music and rejoined the flow of skaters without another word.

The song he’d chosen wasn’t from his current programs, but he’d used it for a short a few years ago. He’d enjoyed the choreography the first time around, and he’d done well with it in competition, but he always felt his skills at the time didn’t meet the potential of the song. It had since become a side project of his, dusting off the old track and sprinkle in new, improved elements among the old.

He tried to lose himself in the familiar, well-worn patterns of muscle memory, but something was off. The separation he could usually find on the ice was gone, shattered by his stumble in the warm-up, and it had cracked Yuri open along with it. 

Suddenly, it seemed everyone else on the ice was watching him, and they all knew - they knew what he did last night, and the night before that, and last year. They were reading his thoughts and saw each flaw in his movement with preternatural clarity. He knew it as well as he knew the tilt of his own head in the mirror.

Someone’s braying laugh broke through the notes in his ears, and he whipped his head to the side to see who was responsible. He couldn’t see who had caused the outburst, but instead his eyes fell on the reporter. The same man from the party was now lounging in the press area in his ill-fitting suit, a bulky camera held to his face as he snapped away, rapid fire. _We won’t be seeing any new jumps from that corner this year,_ his voice repeated in Yuri’s head. _Probably ever._

_Plisetsky’s days are numbered._

It only took a second for Yuri to change his direction. He built speed on his next few strides, turning to prep the jump entry as he approached the press booth. If his days were numbered, then that number was about to be quadrupled. 

He was nearly too close to the wall before he dug in, launching himself into the loop. 

It was smooth, tight, a perfect quad.

The landing was an equally spectacular failure. 

Yuri came down hard on both feet and stumbled, the ice betraying him in return for his arrogance. He slipped and caught himself on one hand and his ass, the sting redoubled across already sore parts as the impact radiated through his bones.

Over the crescendo of the song in his hears, he could already hear Yakov yelling.

He lurched back to his feet, trying not to visibly wince, and kept his eyes focused on the ice beneath his feet as he made his way back to the entrance. The pain was fading from his movements, though it still resonated across the ghosts of old injuries. That was a good sign - he hadn’t seriously hurt himself - only his dignity and his ass.

When he reached Yakov, his coach was bright red from his blocky chin to the shine of his bald spot.

“Yura,” he roared. “What in hell were you thinking?”

“I’ve trained the loop before.” Yuri shrugged and grabbed his water bottle, sucking down a few mouthfuls before wiping his face with the back of his hand. “It was nothing.” 

“Nothing?” Yuri could feel the weight of the many cameras in the room trained on them as Yakov continued to make a scene. “The day before the Olympics, you risk your body in such a way, and for _nothing_?” 

“It was fine,” Yuri said, waving the words off. “The jump was good. It was only the landing. Next time, I’ll-”

Yakov thrust Yuri’s skate guards out at him. The old man’s hands were shaking. 

“Put them on,” Yakov said, his voice gone quiet and cold. “Put them on and get off the ice. I want you to take a break.”

“I’ve barely warmed up,” Yuri began before the guards jabbed him in the chest.

“Get off the ice,” Yakov repeated. “Come back when you’re through taking stupid risks.”

Yuri snapped his skate guards on and stepped out of the rink. He stalked away toward the locker rooms, the click of his skates on the concrete satisfying in the now-hushed arena. As he passed by the stands, something caught on his sleeve, and he looked up, preparing to snap at whatever fan or reporter thought _now_ was a good time to talk.

Altin was staring back at him from above, his fingers pinching at the fabric of Yuri’s jacket. Despite his look of concern, his dark brown eyes were warm and inviting, like a fire-warmed ski lodge set at the end of an icy slope. 

His lips parted to say something, and Yuri snatched his arm away. The last thing he needed right now was a word from his competition about that fiasco. He left without giving Otabek the chance to speak more than his name.

-

Yuri glared down at the floor of the Kiss and Cry the next day, trying to tune out the voices of announcers doing replays in a hundred languages as he waited for his scores. He could feel Yakov, present at his side and similarly frozen. It hadn’t been the worst skate of his career by far, but the shittiest ones had all involved skating on injuries. This time, he had no good excuse.

The screen flashed, and Yuri raised his head as the numbers posted. 87.5. He was in fourth, then. On the playback monitors, he could see Yakov nodding as if satisfied by that posting, and tried to school his expression to stay flat. What a couple of liars they were.

It was just the short program. He could easily make up three places in the Free tomorrow - he’d come from farther behind in the past - but it still stung, seeing his name so far down the list. 

Katsuki - apparently also named Yuri - was right beneath him. From what he’d heard, that was all PCS and no decent tech. Fucking _Vitya_ was in second and Altin in third, while first place was some Canadian freak who had come out of nowhere. 

As soon as the cameras drifted away from him, Yuri rose from the bench. Without sparing a word for Yakov, he left. Pushing past the reporters and ignoring the buzz of the crowd was easy enough after so many years of practice, and soon he was back on the street, heading for the athlete housing. Vitya would be tied up doing interviews and signing Olympic mascots for little girls, which meant Yuri could have a few minutes in the room for himself. He dropped his bag on the floor just inside the door, then flopped back onto his bed. 

The Canadian would probably flame out tomorrow. He seemed like the type - cocky and loud in that “fake it till you make it” sort of way that barely masked the fact that he had no idea what he was doing. Vitya struck him as the same sort. Yuri hadn’t watched him skate - hadn’t watched _any_ of the others today, in fact, so he was surprised to see the kid’s final score, but knowing his usual fumbles, it wouldn’t last. Altin, on the other hand… Altin was in striking distance. He was not just skilled, but reliable. Judging from the screams of delight Yuri hadn’t been able to block out, Altin had nailed all his jumps today. If he could repeat that tomorrow, plus debuting something like a quad loop, then gold was within his grasp.

Rolling onto his stomach to smother a pang of nausea, Yuri fished his phone out of his pocket. No messages. No missed calls.

The pattern of navigating to voicemail was familiar. In an earlier decade, the buttons would be worn smooth beneath his thumbs. He opened the saved messages folder, then pressed the phone tight to his ear.

“Good morning, Yuratchka,” the familiar, gruff tone of his grandfather’s voice made Yuri’s chest ache as his lips moved, tracing the shape of the words. “You did well today. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there-” The rest of sentence cut off on a muffled cough, then a loud inhale. “Good luck tomorrow. Just do your best, no matter what. I’ll be watching.”

Silence, and then the robotic female voice cut in. “To replay this message-” 

He pressed the button to save once more, then tossed the phone onto the night stand before burying his face in the pillow. There should be more than enough time for his eyes to dry before Vitya returned.

-

Yuri bounced on his toes the next day as he waited for his cue to begin warm-up for the free skate. His name rang out over the loudspeakers, and he raised his hand in acknowledgement before dashing off across the ice.

The rest of the final group circled and weaved around him, each man focused on himself. Skaters had to be selfish, especially on such a historic day. At the end of this, every competitor on the ice knew he would either be going home an Olympic medalist, or a failure. Each of them had a hunger burning bright within, driving him toward gold. Yuri only had to put faith in the fact that his burned hotter.

He built speed, moving toward the edge of the rink, and executed a delayed single axel, smiling to himself at the muffled gasp from the crowd. It wasn’t in his program, but it had a dramatic flair to it that he enjoyed. 

He turned, angling himself for the quad toe, and saw Altin glide by, his brow furrowed in concentration. For a fraction of a second, Yuri lost where he was. Yakov’s voice, calling across the rink to his other skaters, snapped him back, but he could sense that he’d lost too much momentum to make the jump work. He turned again and tried to find his place on the ice.

Yuri’s triple flip was masterful. He put both arms up as he twisted and landed with grace, free leg swept out. The pull and twinge of his muscles from practice two days ago was now entirely gone. As intended, today would be his peak. 

Altin swept by again, then turned to face Yuri for a moment before leaping into a tight triple flip of his own. Was that intentional? What the hell was it supposed to mean? Yuri followed him around the rink with narrowed eyes.

“Watch it,” someone snapped, and Yuri whipped around. In his distraction, he’d lost his sense of the others and drifted closer to the boards. The Austrian skater’s accusatory glare made it clear he didn’t believe it was an accident. 

The skaters began clearing the ice as Yuri made one last partial pass, lingering in center rink for a second. He glanced down, watching the multicolored rings fly by under his feet. Hello and farewell, Olympics. After today, he would never have this view again. He circled the rings once more, then hurried to the exit. 

The Austrian waited on the ice for his program to begin, his eyes still burning a hole in the back of Yuri’s neck. Slipping his skate guards into place, Yuri ignored the suspicious glances and moved behind the stands to wait his turn. Fourth place meant no building weight as half an hour stretched on before him, and none of the pressure inherent in going _last_ , but it also meant he’d be back on the ice all too soon.

Someone tapped his shoulder, and Yuri turned, a barb readied on his tongue if Yakov so much as thought about giving him a pep talk. Instead of his coach’s shining bald spot, Yuri looked down into a pair of warm brown eyes.

“Hey,” Altin said. “I won’t bother you. I just wanted to wish you luck.”

“Why?” Yuri snapped, nerves on edge. “Let me guess, ‘Good luck. You’re gonna need it.’”

“No.” The smile hiding in the corners of Altin’s eyes never faltered. “Regular ‘good luck’. I’ve been waiting for years for the chance to watch you win gold. I’ll feel very lucky if I get to see it in person.”

Yuri stopped, lost for words to respond to the genuine feeling of that statement. After a long pause, he nodded. Altin clapped him on the shoulder once more, then put in his own earbuds and walked away.

Above, the audience was already screaming their approval of the Austrian’s skate. Katsuki would be up next. Yuri scanned the groups around him, looking for the kid. He finally spotted that brilliant white Team Japan jacket, huddled in the darkness by the exit. The boy’s face was almost as white as his clothing as he fiddled with his hem. Where was the kid’s coach? 

Before Yuri could ask, Katsuki was announced, and the kid jumped a bit before trudging to the rink like he was walking to his own execution. Yuri felt an echo of something almost like sympathy, watching him leave. At least he’d had Yakov.

But there was no point in worrying over what Japan was or wasn’t doing for their skaters. It was time for Yuri to get his game face on. He popped in his earbuds, pulling up the heavy metal playlist he always used to get his heart pumping before competitions, and closed his eyes.

He would have to skate clean. With three skaters after him, already ahead of him in points from yesterday, there was no room for a major mistake. As much as he hated to admit it, Yakov was right about the quad loop as well - Yuri might be able to get the rotations, but he couldn’t land it, and he’d need the extra points of a high GOE jump to win. There would be no surprises today. 

Would Altin really be doing it? Yuri opened his eyes, scanning the faces of the others as they waited. Yakov was in a corner, speaking to Vitya in a low tone as the younger boy stretched, his silver hair arranged in an elaborate mass of braids that had caused him to hog the bathroom for over an hour. He saw the Canadian against the wall, already looking a bit green around the edges as an older couple bracketed him, each holding one of his hands. It looked like they were praying. Well, they’d need it. He had a lot of time ahead of him for that pressure to build.

Finally, Altin walked down the corridor. His pace was deliberate and his expression stony. He looked cool. He looked determined. It was a good sign for him, but maybe a bad one for Yuri. 

Altin was confident and collected, and Yuri felt himself falter a little. Wasn’t he supposed to be the self-assured one? He was the champion, after all. 

“Yura,” Yakov said, cutting off his train of thought. Above them, the crowd roared, signalling the end of Katsuki’s program. 

Yuri nodded to his coach and followed him out to the ice. Yakov accepted his jacket and skate guards with narrowed eyes. “No surprises?” he asked. Yuri shook his head. “Good.”

That was it. There was no motivation to be given at this stage. Yuri would either skate clean and accomplish what he came here to do, or he would fall, and the sharks like that reporter would devour him as they’d always wanted.

The announcer called his name, and he took his position at center rink, breathing in the icy air and the acrid stench of sweat and fear from those that came before him. The silence between his introduction and the first notes of his music felt eternal, and, in it, he waited for his veil to descend. Now it was only Yuri on the ice.

Or was it? As the first notes rang out on the speaker system, Yuri began his movements. Above the song, he was conscious of the sound he made with every gasping breath, the scratch of the judges’ pencils, and the murmur of the crowd. He narrowed his eyes and focused on his moves - precise, sharp. _You were like a razor,_ Altin said, and it was true. 

The triple axel was first - perfect. Next came the combination. He danced across the ice to get into position, and for a moment, hesitated. The combination began with a triple loop. He could try the quad here, but he told Yakov, and he knew it should be true: no surprises. 

He landed the loop in a spray of ice - under-rotated. It slowed him, and the triple toe became a double. Stupid. _Stupid_. He couldn’t afford to give away points. He needed everything the program had to offer.

Next there was a quad sal, placed early in his program while he was still fresh. It was his hardest jump, and his signature. Landing it for the first time when he was 22, he’d kicked off an arms race as other skaters reached for the stars, pushing for their own new quads. Altin, Vitya, and even kids like Katsuki were right behind him now. It was only a matter of time. 

In the air, he pulled his arms tight against his torso, not confident enough to go for the extra difficulty. He wobbled. The landing tilted, and he felt the ice rise up to meet him, unnatural cold seeping through his gloved fingers. 

He gritted his teeth as he righted himself. His jaw was clenched tight when he moved into the damned step sequence. Yakov had never liked this part. He was never satisfied with Yuri’s _grace_ , but the sequence was too quick for elegance. It was difficult to make the thing feel like a dance at the speed he needed in order to pack everything in.

But maybe it wasn’t a ballet after all. Maybe, he thought, it was _combat_. 

Yes. The step sequence was a fight, just as the whole program was today. Yuri was fighting for his life here. Rapid punches, dodges, and weaves carried him across the ice, and then he spun - camel, and then switching feet as a kick. He emerged and ran, fleeing his enemies only to turn again, and the quad toe? That would be his finishing move. 

When the music stopped, he froze, chest heaving. Beneath the bright lights, he could feel the sweat running down his face. The crowd roared like thunder, and a shower of toys and trinkets began to drop from the sky.

Yuri raised a hand. Thank you. Then, he left the ice, nails digging crescents into his palms.

“Good work,” Yakov said. He sounded odd. Disappointed? Yuri waited for the lecture, but the old man reached out, wrapping Yuri’s jacket around his shoulders like he was a junior who needed comfort.

He had no smiles for the Kiss and Cry, no smirk of triumph. He’d touched down on his sal. He’d under-performed. He’d given up points that he’d needed, and needed desperately if he wanted to retain his crown. A sour feeling churned in his gut. In skating, there were never any guarantees.

Time stretched and slowed as he waited for the judges to finish reviewing his jumps. Beneath his jacket, his skin was still chilled from the rush of air on the rink, so cold he almost expected to see his own, shuddering breaths emerge in white puffs. He was riding on this moment. His fingers pressed hard in the grooves of his knee caps through his costume as he watched the monitor. He could only hope that what he’d done would be enough, mistakes and all.

The scores went up, and Yuri’s mouth fell open. 175.2. Not a personal best, but a _season’s best_ , despite the errors. He was tempted to rub his eyes, even pinch himself, and peered closer at the individual numbers. That… might be the highest PCS of his career. How?

He was in first place with a combined score of 262.7, but for how long? Three more skaters still had to follow him.

He glanced over at Yakov and saw a restrained smile grace his Coach’s lips. “Lilia might not approve your interpretation, but the judges certainly saw something in that step sequence. What was it?”

Yuri shrugged. “Something different,” he said. “Another outlook.”

Yakov hummed, nodding to himself, and then clapped Yuri on the shoulder. “It felt like, for once, your heart was in the music.”

Ahead of them, Altin entered the rink, and Yuri stood. “I’m going to find a spot to watch,” he said. Yakov gave him a speculative glance, but knew better than the comment on the choice if he found it odd. 

Yuri didn’t typically watch the others during competition, though he watched videos of their programs at home with a devotion that bordered on obsessive, studying their movements for hints of weakness or changes in ability. Part of that was due to the fact that he often skated last and was too focused on himself on competition day to bother with the others.

But this situation _was_ different. If Altin hoped to knock him off the podium, Yuri didn’t want to miss the moment.

Besides, maybe the sight of Yuri leaning against the boards would throw him off as he’d done to Yuri during practice.

Altin waved to the crowd as he was announced, and the response was much more enthusiastic than Yuri had expected. Altin had a lot of fans for a competitor from a lesser-known country, but then, maybe the underdog vibe he had was part of the appeal. His costume for the Free was a deep, earthy purple. It shimmered in the light, but only then. It was understated, but eye-catching. 

A pounding drum beat signaled the beginning of the performance, then the shrill of a flute. Yuri found himself nodding in approval. The music was very like Altin in it’s themes - strong, relentless, confident. The man landed his lutz and dropped into a spin with only a beat of footwork between.

What Altin lacked in speed and elegance, he made up for in power and precision. His skating was full of clean lines, and every jump had air time to spare. Yuri couldn’t help but picture what he’d look like performing a delayed single. It was a shame he didn’t seem to have the flexibility for a split. With those thighs…

Well, his mind was going to unneeded places now. Not for the first time, Yuri thanked the confining embrace of his dance belt. The last thing he needed was for photos to be circulating online of weird bulges in his skating costume. So what if Altin was attractive? That was part of why Yuri had wanted to fuck him, after all.

A strong but simple step sequence wrapped the first half, and Yuri looked down to find his fingertips white, pressed against the barrier. So far, all but the toe loop had been triples. Altin had the strength, but did he truly have the stamina needed to land a difficult jump in the back half of his program? The skate no doubt looked pretty on the screens, but Yuri could already see telltale trembles from here. Altin was tiring.

There was the combo - a triple flip, then a double toe, and he circled before entering a final combination spin. If was slow, but smooth, barely traveling on the ice, and then the music stopped.

There had been no quad loop. Had Yuri’s plan - his hope - had it actually worked? Despite his own mistakes, had he somehow distracted his competitor into failing?

No. Otabek’s program had been perfect. There hadn’t been any falters in the timing. He hadn’t been visibly flustered or flubbed his landings. If anything, he had excelled. _So, where was the jump?_

On the huge screens overhead, Otabek waved to the camera. With no deductions in need of review, his scores popped up quickly. His combined score was 254.25. He was in second place. Beneath Yuri. 

And, on camera, he had the audacity to smile and nod, as if he were _happy_ about that. As if that were _good_. Yuri’s hands clenched hard against the boards. He should be the happy one, but instead he felt cheated. He’d been promised pirozhkis and then given stew. It was good, but it wasn’t what he’d expected. 

As Altin left the Kiss and Cry with his coach and began to wind his way around to exit beneath the stands, Yuri pushed off from the barrier and ran after him.

In the dimly lit area where only the Canadian was left to await his fate, Yuri’s voice echoed when he called out. “Hey, you!”

Altin stopped and turned to face him, and Yuri could hear the tinny voices of the announcers calling out the next skater from Russia. 

“Yuri,” Otabek said, and there was that hint of a smile again. “Congratulations. You skated well.”

“Never mind my skating,” Yuri snapped. “What the hell was that out there?”

Altin’s coach stopped, calling his name quietly, but Otabek waved her off. “What do you mean?” He asked, frowning. “It was my program. Did you not like it? If you have recommendations where I can improve-”

“It was great,” Yuri said, with a sour taste on his tongue even as his lips formed the compliment. “You could work on building speed going into those spins, but I mean _why didn’t you take the jump?_ ”

“What jump?” 

The crowd above them erupted into shrieks and thumping, drowning out their conversation and forcing them to wait for the cheering to stop. 

No matter what Yakov claimed, Yuri was not a toddler. He was an adult, damnit, and he would not stomp his foot like a child. He wrapped his arms tight around himself and tamped down the frustration. “The loop,” he said. “The damned quad loop everyone was saying you would debut.”

Otabek shook his head slowly. He had one of the Olympic mascot plushies, and turned the white tiger in his hands as he spoke. “I never had a quad loop. I’ve never even trained it. I was training the salchow, but I can’t land it reliably enough.”

“Your body isn’t tight enough in the air on the triple,” Yuri responded reflexively, then began to process what Otabek just said. His skin went cold beneath the warmth of his jacket. “Why were people saying you had the loop then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they confused me with someone else?” Otabek’s mouth continued moving, but Yuri couldn’t hear anything more over the roar of the crowd above them.

Frowning, Otabek moved to the doorway, and Yuri watched his eyes go wide. He turned around and looked up at the central screen above the rink. Vitya was in the Kiss and Cry, Yakov’s arm around his shoulders and a garland of blue roses tangled in his falling braid. His mascara was running down his face in black rivulets as the score below him flashed. 185.64, with a combined score of 295.09.

Victor Nikiforov had taken first, and he’d set a new world record doing it.

Yuri’s world tilted.

-

He tried to keep from squinting as hundreds of flashes went off simultaneously. Determined not to be haunted by another photo of himself looking sour at the Olympics, he stretched his lips out from his teeth in what he hoped would resemble a smile more than a grimace. 

The silver medal around his neck caught the light, and he couldn’t help but think it would look better on Vitya. It matched his hair, after all. Yuri looked down, resisting the temptation to stare at the gold and think what might have been.

Except Yuri had never even had a chance, aside from a disaster in that record-setting program. It was _Vitya_ who had the quad loop after all, and not just the loop, but the flip as well. Before the podium ceremony began, Yuri had only gotten a second in private to hiss, _How?_ at Yakov.

The old man had shrugged. “If you’d taken up on my offers to help with his coaching, you would have known.” 

Right under his nose, right in his own home rink, and Yuri never had a clue.

On the other side of Victor, Otabek looked pleased with his bronze. He had clearly never even believed the gold was in his reach.

A member of the press called out in Russian for Yuri to pose with his countryman, and then Vitya reached down, hauling Yuri onto the top step beside him and wrapping a too-familiar arm around his waist. 

“Sorry,” the kid muttered under his breath while maintaining that perfect, dreamboat smile. “But all I did was take your advice. ‘Anything less than gold is trash,’ right?”

For a moment, Yuri gave in. He glanced down for a last real-life look at Olympic gold. A flash stuttered off nearby, and his heart sank, knowing that would be the image that followed him next - Yuri Plisetsky, standing by his beaming countryman and looking enviously down at the one gold he could never capture.

Next, the requests came for the gold medalist alone, and Yuri hopped off the podium. By the exit, he paused and looped the silver medal from his neck, then dropped it into Yakov’s hands.

“I need you to move up my flight,” he said. “I want to take off as soon as possible.”

“Slinking home so easily?” Yakov asked. Smug bastard. 

“No,” Yuri snapped. “I need to get back to practice. I’m going to World’s.”

-

The Incheon airport was slammed with Olympics traffic.. It took Yuri over an hour just to get past security, and by the time he made it through, his stomach was growling loud enough that passing strangers were staring at him askance. Then again, maybe it wasn’t his stomach they were noticing. Maybe it was the sour look on his face.

When he’d told Yakov to book him on an earlier flight, he hadn’t expected the red eye, but he should have. The old man had weird ideas about punishment. Yuri had incited his passive-aggressive wrath somehow, and now he was paying for it by elbowing his way through a busy international airport at five in the damn morning.

He found his gate easy enough, but the seating area was still clogged with bleary-eyed, hungover passengers waiting for the previous flight to board. He had nearly an hour to waste before boarding would begin, so he hitched his equipment bag a little higher on his shoulder and set off down the terminal in search of breakfast.

A few gates down, he found a tea shop and bakery. Yakov wasn’t around to scold him over having sugar and bread for breakfast, and so he put in an order. As he waited at the counter, inhaling the rich smells of steamed milk and buttered pastry, he scanned the nearby waiting areas for a place to sit down. Among the strangers, he spotted a familiar figure, hunched over and clutching a phone with both hands.

Yuri turned back to the woman behind the counter. “Actually, can I get a second tea and,” he paused and tapped on the glass case, pointing to a chocolate croissant. “One of those too.” 

Katsuki jerked in surprise as the paper bag landed in the seat beside him a few minutes later. 

“Have you eaten yet?” Yuri asked. The boy shook his head, and Yuri nodded to the bag. “Breakfast,” he said, then handed Katsuki one of the teas as well before dropping onto the slick pleather airport seats.

“Thank you,” the kid muttered, reaching into the paper bag to tear a piece off the pastry, then another. “I forgot to eat.”

“Nervous flyer?” Yuri asked as he dumped a little package of cream into his tea before offering Katsuki the rest. 

“A little,” Katsuki admitted with a shrug. He tore another bite from the pastry. This one didn’t make it to his lips either. His fingers picked and worried at the flaky layers until the croissant crumbled. He reached into the bag again. “More nervous about… what they’ll say when I get home.”

Caught in the middle of tearing a bite off his own breakfast, Yuri stopped. “You finished in 8th at the Olympics during your senior debut,” he scoffed. “Do you really think they’re going to complain?”

“No,” Yuuri sighed. He stopped decimating his pastry and actually put a crumb in his mouth. “Not really. But I worry anyway.”

“You scored well enough in the short to skate in the final group yesterday.” Yuri couldn’t say when he was possessed by a spirit of positivity, but frankly, the kid wasn’t being rational, and Yuri wasn’t about to let that pass unremarked. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“I could have done better,” Yuuri muttered, then clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “No! That sounds rude.” He did that weird little seated half-bow of apology Yuri had seen before. “I mean, I’m disappointed that I couldn’t give it my very best!”

Well, that was a sentiment he hadn’t expected to hear from quiet little Yuuri. “No, I like the first thing you said better. Most skaters would agree with you, even if they did win. You always could have done better. Believe it. In my case, you know it’s true.”

Yuuri bit his lip and pulled at his breakfast again. If he didn’t actually eat it soon, there would be nothing left but dust. 

“I’m frustrated,” he admitted, sounding almost pained by the words. “I have anxiety. My family got me a support dog a couple years ago, and I bring him to competitions usually, but the IOC said he couldn’t stay in the athlete housing with me for the Olympics. I had to leave him at home.”

“I thought I could manage,” Yuuri continued, and his eyes were starting to look suspiciously moist. “But yesterday, I was so nervous that I couldn’t even see straight. Did you watch my skate?” Yuri shook his head, and the kid continued. “I fell. I fell a _lot_. I couldn’t overcome my mental weakness.”

“I know you’ll probably hate me for saying this,” Yuri said. “But you’re just a kid.” _He_ would have hated to hear that at sixteen for sure, would have denied it to the rafters, but Yuuri seems a bit more level-headed than Yuri had been. “It was your first Olympics, and you had a lot going against you. You did well, even if you fell.” He huffed and shook his head. “What’s my excuse?”

“You got _silver_ ,” Yuuri said loudly, then stopped, flushing as he dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “You were great. Victor had those extra jumps, but you skated well. Even if you’d been perfect, he would have won.”

“Thanks, “ Yuri drawled. Katsuki had a lot more spine than Yuri had expected. He sort of liked this version. There was some fire and confidence hidden under the anxiety and politeness after all.

“You know what I mean,” Yuuri said, with a very teenaged eye roll. He looked down at his breakfast, only to find the crinkled brown paper littered with crumbs. Yuri silently passed him the other half of his own pastry. He could buy something else on the flight. 

“Your step sequence was really good,” Yuuri said, between actual bites. “Better than usual, even though-” he cut himself off with a fake-sounding cough and took a long sip of his tea.

“ _Even though, what_ ,” Yuri prompted, amused. Who was mentoring who, here?

“Ah, nothing important.”

“No,” Yuri said. “I want to know what you were going to say. Even though-?”

Yuuri looked away, then answered in a rush of quiet, accented English. “Even though you seemed angry,” he said. “And it didn’t fit the emotion in the music. I liked seeing you skate with so much feeling. Not that you don’t have feelings normally! It’s just that-”

The speaker above them dinged before Yuuri could dig his hole any deeper, and the flight attendant’s voice rang through, calling for boarding on the plane to Fukuoka. Yuri stood, holding his hand out for the garbage remnants of their breakfast. 

“Thank you for the food,” Yuuri said, bowing stiffly. “And the tea. And the advice.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yuri replied. “Seriously. Stop worrying so much.”

The kid finally straightened up and met his eyes once more. “Will I see you at Worlds?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said with a smile. “I’ll see you at World’s.” 

He watched until Yuuri made it onto the jet bridge, then turned, tossing the last of his tea in the trash on his way to his own gate. 

It was far from the first time someone had told Yuri he seemed angry, although he usually kept that off the ice. He had always tried to separate his own feelings and concerns from his programs, but this time, when he’d failed, he’d been rewarded by the judges. 

As Yuuri had said, anger didn’t fit the song. The song was sweet. The song was longing. Yuri was vicious and competitive. As a kid, he’d tried to skate the emotion that fit the music. As an adult, he’d given up on that struggle in favor of performing on technical merit.

But maybe he didn’t need to learn to skate _first love_. Maybe what he needed for Worlds was to try something new, something that Yuri could already feel within himself, something that would surprise the audience.

He pulled his phone from his hoodie pocket and scrolled through the recent texts until he found Mila’s name. 

**Yuri:** Baba. I’ll be at the rink tonight. I need a new program. 

-

Of course, creating and learning an entirely new program in the month between the Olympics and Worlds would have been impossible, and if Yuri hadn’t known that already, then the lecture he’d gotten from Mila on the topic would have cleared things up pretty damn quick. In case that hadn’t worked, the screaming fit Yakov and Lilia both treated him to when they found out could have clinched the deal.

Instead, Yuri and Mila had combed through his back catalogue together, looking for an older program they could breathe new life into, something Yuri knew he could skate with feeling. They were a few years back into the old videos when Yuri hit pause, his twenty-five year-old self on the screen caught in the middle of an elegant Ina Bauer.

“What do you think of this one?” He asked Mila.

She pulled the ballpoint pen from behind her ear and tapped it against her cheek, leaving little spots and smudges of blue ink on her face. “I remember this one,” she said. “This was my last season skating.”

It was. It was also the last season Yuri’s grandfather had gotten to see.

“Well,” Yuri prompted again. “Do you think it will work?”

“Yeah,” Mila said at last. “We can up the difficulty on that first combo and move your quad sal to the back half. For the step sequence-” she sucked in a breath, hesitating.

“Don’t worry about offending Lilia,” Yuri said. “If she asks, we’ll tell her it was my idea. Can you do anything with it?”

Mila reached out and pressed play on the laptop, watching Yuri soar from his spin into the first stiff steps of what was meant to be a graceful sequence. In lieu of an answer, she pulled her notebook higher on her knee and began furiously scribbling down notes. 

-

Yuri grabbed the boards to stop, swinging with the remaining momentum. His chest was heaving and the strands of hair that had escaped his ponytail were glued to his neck and cheeks with sweat. He grabbed his skate guards and clipped them into place, then reached for his water bottle.

Yakov got to it first, holding it just out of reach. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” his coach warned. 

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Yuri said as he stepped off the ice and grabbed his towel, wiping the sweat from his face. His thighs were burning, protesting every step, and there was a soreness in his lower back that he knew would need a heat pack. “I’m practicing my program.”

“Sure,” Yakov said, relinquishing the water bottle. “Today you practice your program, but what were you doing last night?”

Yuri shrugged and tilted his head up to squirt the water into his open mouth.

“The security guards are in my pocket. They tell me when people come here after hours.”

Yuri sat down on the nearest bench and began unlacing his skates.

Yakov was dead silent. Yuri could almost believe the old man had given up. Then, he spoke up once more, “I thought you were insane for changing programs right now, but you are doing well. Don’t ruin it practicing jumps without your coach. At least bring Mila next time.”

Standing, Yuri nodded in acknowledgement before heading to the lockers.

After showering and changing back into his street clothes, Yuri loitered at the edges of the rink, where Mila was still busy coaching a few of the juniors. None of the current crop were of much interest to him - still lanky and uncoordinated, and with all the same grace you find by putting ice skates on a slobbery, enthusiastic dog.

He pulled out his phone and dug through his albums until he found a video of practice a few nights ago, cut it down to just the triple axel, and uploaded it to Instagram. As soon as it finished processing, the notifications began to stream in. 

Yuri didn’t believe in interacting with others on his accounts. It would only encourage the crazies. He had fewer of those now than he had in the past, but there were still more marriage proposals and raunchy gifs than he was comfortable with.

Instead, he opened the search bar. As soon as he clicked on it, the account name he’d searched most recently appeared. He tapped on it.

Yuri frowned down at his phone. There was only one new image on Altin’s account, and it was just a close up of a bunch of flowers. Something silvery loomed behind the blooms, out of focus. Altin posted a lot of arty shit like this and not nearly enough of himself. 

It wasn’t that Yuri wanted to see him. It was just that he needed to know what his competition was up to. What did the corporate assholes call it? ‘Competitive research.’

“Yuri.” He nearly dropped his phone at the sound of Mila’s voice, saying his name suddenly from just over his shoulder. He shoved the phone into his pocket and turned, fighting down the traitorous flush burned onto his cheeks.

“I’m done for the night,” Mila said, only a raised eyebrow indicating she found his reaction unusual. “Were you waiting on me?”

“Yeah. Yakov knows I’ve been sneaking in extra practice after hours.” Mila wrinkled her nose. “He told me I need to bring you next time.”

“Sorry, I have plans tonight. Tomorrow?”

Yuri nodded and hauled his equipment bag onto his shoulder, walking with Mila to the doors. When they got outside, Mila lingered, despite her claimed plans and the freezing late-February weather that was burnishing her cheeks to match her hair.

“What is it?” Yuri asked.

“Why did you want a new program?” It was hard to see Mila’s eyes with that thick wool cap pulled low on her head. Between that and her scarf, he had few clues to what she might be thinking. “Why so suddenly, and when the other one was already getting you gold?”

Yuri shrugged.

“Don’t do that to me,” Mila said, waspish. “I know you. You had to have a reason.”

Yuri hesitated, but it was too damn cold out. Mila was stubborn as hell - if she hadn’t been born that way, she’d picked it up early. “I’ve been thinking about retiring,” he admitted. 

It was the first time he’d actually said it out loud.

Mila twisted her mouth, unimpressed. “You’re twenty-eight-”

“Not yet,” Yuri interjected.

“You will be twenty-eight _next week_ , Yuri Plisetsky. Accept it.” Mila rolled her eyes. “I retired at twenty-six, and people told me that was old. I’d be concerned if you _weren’t_ thinking about it at your age.”

“My body is fine,” Yuri protested, and it was, so long as he managed to avoid another injury. He could ignore the aches and cracks that were slowly making themselves felt in his joints as long as nothing difficult hit. 

“So why retire, then?” Mila prompted. “Others have skated into their thirties before. Why now? Why this program?”

“The Olympics,” he said, and then had to pause to wet his lips, even as the icy wind chapped and chafed them over again. “Things are changing, Mila. I know that I started this, but now the younger skaters are coming. I’m starting to accept that maybe I can’t keep up.

“But,” he added. “Fuck them if they think I’m going down without a fight.” The vehemence surprised a laugh from Mila, and Yuri smirked. “If this is going to be my last Worlds, then I plan to go out as the reigning champion.”

“Okay, okay,” Mila said, smothering her smile with her hand. “So we made you a championship program and you’re going to use it to murder some children. Then what? Are you going to come join the ranks of Yakov’s junior coaches too?”

Yuri shrugged. He hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but, “Can you imagine? Mila, I’d be a terrible coach. I’d terrify the kids.”

“So does Yakov,” Mila joked, then slung an arm around Yuri’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You have a lot to teach about what _not_ to do, after all.” 

-

Once his plane landed in Milan, Yuri took a taxi straight to the rink, dragging his luggage along behind him to get in an early practice.

By the time he arrived back at his hotel to check in, there were already fans waiting in the lobby for him. Most of them had aged out of the screaming phase, thank god, but he could hear them whispering and talking amongst themselves, and could feel their eyes bore into his shoulders as he spoke to the desk staff.

“Should I call security?” The hotel clerk eyed the group with narrowed eyes. “We can have them removed.”

“Don’t bother,” Yuri said, as he scratched out his signature on the credit card machine. “I’m used to it. If you take them out, they’ll only get sneakier.”

When he turned away from the desk, the gaggle pressed closer, a few of the braver or stupider ones darting forward to force selfies with him. He kept a half smile plastered on his face for the photos as he pushed through to the elevators and swiped his key card at the door.

He slumped back against the mirrored wall of the lift, letting his eyes fall closed as it ascended to his floor. The “Angels” didn’t bother him as much as they had when he was young and didn’t understand how to deal with them, but their constant presence at events still left him feeling frayed around the edges. Fans could never seem to understand that sometimes their idol might not be in the mood to play nice with strangers.

The elevator dinged to announce his arrival, and Yuri followed the signs in the hall to his room. It wasn’t quite luxury, but it was a minor upgrade from the official hotel that the ISU had chosen. Even over a decade after his first major sponsorship, he would still feel guilt twist his guts if he spent too much on something as petty as a hotel room. It was a spot to sleep for a couple days at best. It wasn’t usually worth shelling out for anything special.

But the room was clean and well-lit, with large picture windows that hung open to let the spring breezes cool the room. Best of all, he had it to himself. He dropped his suitcase inside the door and tossed his duffel onto the king-sized bed, then walked to the window. The place did offer a beautiful view of Milan. 

He’d always liked this city. The cathedral, with its sharp, prickly towers, loomed over the central square like a palace of ice in a fairy tale, so unlike the rounded domes and brilliant colors of the big cathedrals in Moscow. He’d come here for the first time as a junior and been fascinated by the way Milan straddled modernity and tradition.

Maybe, if all went well, he’d stay an extra day or two and celebrate his win with a shopping trip.

He pulled his phone from his hoodie pouch and snapped a quick picture of the view for Instagram, then checked his feed. Right at the top was a bright, sunny shot of Vitya’s pink-painted toenails propped up on a lounge chair. In the distance, he could see the white sands and brilliant blue waters of the Caribbean. 

God damnit. That should be Yuri taking a hard-earned vacation in a tropical resort. The only consolation was that Vitya’s legs and feet looked as white as the sand. Maybe he’d burn. Yuri would love to see him in a week, skulking back into the rink red as a lobster. It was petty, but it did make him smile to picture it.

He knew he shouldn’t check, but he tapped on the search again. The name was right at the top, as usual, mocking him. He clicked.

For once, the account was updated with something substantial. Altin was in Milan as well, and already posting photos from inside the Duomo. Interesting. He hadn’t been at the rink when Yuri was practicing. He must have arrived early.

Yuri’s stomach gurgled, loudly reminding him that a consequence of going straight from the airport to the rink was a lot of exercise and a distinct lack of food. Well, maybe it was a good time to see some of the city again for himself. He grabbed his wallet and ID and shoved them into the pouch on his hoodie, then set out for a little sightseeing.

It didn’t take long for Yuri to regret his decision. The avenues and mall area were thick with jostling, boisterous tourists, a significant number of whom were in town for Worlds and recognized him. He should have stayed in and gotten room service.

Instead, he grabbed quick snacks at a news stand and barely had time to snap a few pictures of the architectural marvel that was Milan before the exhaustion of flights and practice began to wear at him. Riposo hour was over, so he had no polite excuse for public napping. 

Off the square, he spotted a neon sign advertising a bar in the lower floor of another hotel and ducked inside. He preferred tea, but when in Italy, it would be a crime to not drink espresso.

He hopped in line behind a couple of British women, both loaded down with a mountain of designer-branded shopping bags, and scrolled through his phone while they hemmed and hawed over what to order. 

In the middle of a particularly difficult level on Candy Crush, a low voice broke through his concentration. “I hated that one. I almost spent money to get past it.”

Yuri looked up to find Altin behind him in the line. “I just started it,” he said and glanced down at the screen. His heart had jumped at first sight of the small, almost unnoticeable smile that pulled at Altin’s lips, and he fought to push the strange feeling aside under the guise of swapping a stripe with a fish. “Thanks for the warning.”

“No problem,” Altin said. “It’s good to see you.”

Lowering his phone, Yuri stared into those dark eyes once again. In a flash, he saw them darker, pupils dilated with want as Altin stared down at him. “Yeah,” Yuri said, in a moment of unfiltered honesty. “You too.”

The ladies ahead of him finally settled on tea - a waste - so Yuri placed his order, then, on second thought, turned. “Did you want something?” He asked.

Altin’s typically impassive face registered clear surprise at the offer, but he stepped forward and ordered his own coffee as Yuri pulled out his credit card to pay for both.

“When did you get here?” Yuri asked as they waited on the barista, still curious after the Instagram photos.

“Last night,” Otabek answered. “I’ve never been to Milan before.”

The conversation dropped into silence as Yuri searched for something to say that wouldn’t sound inane. He was saved a moment later by the barista, who slid his espresso onto the counter alongside Otabek’s coffee.

Warm mug cupped between his palms, Yuri led them to a booth by the window, curling his legs beneath him like a cat sunning himself in the soft spring light. 

“You left Pyeongchang pretty early.” Otabek said after his first careful sip of coffee. “I wanted to thank you again.” Yuri raised an eyebrow at him, and Otabek clarified, “For the autograph. The one for my sister?”

“Oh, right.” Yuri smirked, rolling his espresso between his hands more than he was drinking it. “Did you tell her how you got it?”

“She was shrieking over the fact that I spoke to you for more than a minute,” Otabek said with a fond shake of his head. “I don’t think she could handle the dirty details.”

Yuri raised his espresso to his lips, letting the bitter taste on his tongue distract him from the bizarre mundanity of the conversation. Was this normal - sitting in a cafe with someone, talking openly about that time you had sex? It had never happened to Yuri before, but he didn’t hate it. In fact, the strangest part of the whole thing was the way that he _didn’t_ feel uncomfortable. He disliked small talk on principle, but this felt easier.

Otabek seemed comfortable as well, leaning back in his chair. His bulky leather jacket was hanging open, and Yuri couldn’t help but notice the way his shirt fell close against his skin, hinting at the definition that Yuri already knew was hiding beneath the layers. 

A shadow passed between them, and Otabek’s expression tensed, his mouth pursing as he looked over Yuri’s shoulder at something outside the cafe. Yuri twisted in his seat, following Otabek’s gaze. 

There was a small cluster of people a couple meters from the window. They might have blended right in with the rest of the tourists if not for some minor red flags - very unofficial Team Russia jackets, animal print, and one distinctive cat ear headband. Yuri winced. His dark past still haunted him. 

They had their phones out, of course, and Yuri felt the weight of a thousand eyes on him. He couldn’t even have a cup of coffee without someone streaming it on YouTube.

“Do you want to come back to my room?” 

Yuri whipped around, not sure he heard the question right. Otabek shook his head, a private smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing implied in that offer,” he clarified. “This is my hotel. My room is right upstairs, if you’d rather stay away from the crowds.”

He shouldn’t feel so disappointed that it wasn’t more of an invitation, but he was. Still, getting some privacy without elbowing his way through a bunch of raving fangirls with cameras was its own reward. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

Otabek lead the way through the cafe to the hotel lobby, then the elevators. Yuri couldn’t help noting that the lifts at this hotel didn’t require a keycard to select a floor. He’d had incidents in the past - “Angels” figuring out what floor he was on and trying to follow him to his room. He found himself torn between resentment and gratitude that Altin apparently didn’t share those safety concerns.

The room was nice. The view from the window was the brick wall of another hotel, and there were two small double beds rather than a single king, but it was fine. The closet door stood open, and Yuri could see Otabek’s banquet suit already hanging up alongside his costumes.

Otabek flopped down onto the bed closest to the door, so Yuri walked around the end to perch on the other one, back straight and hands interlaced in his own lap.

“So,” Otabek prompted after a brief stretch of silence. “How have you been?”

“Good,” Yuri said. “Practicing.” I’ve got a new program, he wanted to add. It’s perfect. It’s going to blow you away. But saying that would spoil the surprise.

“How’s Victor?”

“How should I know?” Yuri snapped without thinking. He couldn’t regret it, though, not when it pulled that rich chuckle from deep in Otabek’s chest. 

“He’s on vacation,” Yuri added, tongue thick with resentment. “Some island paradise bullshit. I think he’s been updating Instagram just to rub my nose in it. He knows Yakov won’t let me unfollow him.”

He was being petty again, whining, but it was nice to be able to air his grievances for once. Otabek wasn’t scolding him like Yakov, didn’t look disapproving the way Mila would, just kept watching Yuri as he ranted, stretched out on the other bed but following Yuri with his eyes as he stood and paced the room.

“That must be nice,” Otabek said, mild and even. “I only got a couple days off to go home and visit my family.”

“I know,” Yuri said, hand waving it away. He paused, mid-stride.

There was a hint of teeth to Otabek’s smile now. “You know? But I just told you.” His grin stretched as his tone turned teasing. “I follow you on Instagram already. If you want to be friends, you could just follow me back.”

Yuri could feel his cheeks warming, realizing he was caught. That was the danger in cyber stalking. 

Of all the ridiculous things, he was stuck on that F-word - _friends_. They’d fucked, but Yuri was tongue-tied and flustered over the idea that they might be becoming _friendly_. That had never been part of the plan.

A mischievous light caught in Otabek’s eyes, and he sat up on the bed. “Wouldn’t it be easier to stalk me if you weren’t worrying about accidentally liking one of my photos?”

Face burning, Yuri stepped forward to stand between Otabek’s parted knees. “I don’t stalk you,” he growled. He _had_ accidentally liked something once, but he’d undone it immediately. No way had Otabek actually seen that notification in time.

Otabek’s head tilted, expression never faltering. “Oh,” he said. “So you really _didn’t_ like that kitten I caught napping on a shelf at the bookstore?”

He’d seen it. Fuck.

His lips were already parted, ready to deliver another teasing comment, and Yuri couldn’t allow the humiliation to continue. He was caught. There was no denying it.

Instead, he leaned down, sealing his mouth over Otabek’s and pulling the words away. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Strike that - it was a terrible idea. This hadn’t exactly done him any favors in Pyeongchang, except for the ways in which it _had_ , so he shouldn’t be repeating it. 

There was a moment of regret, then hesitation as he felt Otabek’s lips, dry and warm and unmoving against his own. But before Yuri could pull away, Otabek broke, grabbing Yuri’s butt with both hands and dragging him forward as he surged up, his mouth opening as his tongue met Yuri’s with clear enthusiasm.

Yuri let himself be pulled, falling forward onto the bed as Otabek rolled them both. His hands on Yuri’s hips felt huge as he maneuvered them, adjusting his legs so they slotted together perfectly. Yuri warmed as Otabek’s warm fingers continued their path up his back, rucking up his shirt to caress the sensitive skin above his waistband. His other hand tangled in Yuri’s long hair, pulling deliciously even as he ducked out of the kiss.

“Hey,” Otabek whispered. His breath was hot on Yuri’s cheek, and Yuri turned his head, not ready to end the kiss. The hand in his hair tightened, holding his head in place. “Wait a minute,” Otabek said, with a breathy almost-laugh.

“What?” Yuri knew he sounded grumpy, but he couldn’t be bothered to disguise it. The talking part was supposed to be done now.

“Nothing strenuous this time, okay?”

Yuri grumbled in response and took the bit of leeway he had to nip at Otabek’s neck below the ear. His lips curled as he felt the broad body beneath his jerk in response.

“ _Okay?_ ” Otabek repeated, and Yuri nodded his assent. 

The heat of Otabek’s body was distracting, but the zipper of his jacket was already biting Yuri’s flesh. He pushed up to tug off his own hoodie, hoping Otabek would take the hint.

It was almost a shame to see that supple leather disappear onto the floor between the beds, but the extra access Yuri now had to _skin_ made up for it.

He ran his hands up under Otabek’s loose white shirt, feeling the firm muscles of his stomach jump at the brush of fingertips. He was still considering his options for where to put his hands - or mouth - next, when Otabek reached up, curling his fist in the collar of Yuri’s shirt.

“Come back,” he murmured, pressing the words into Yuri’s lips as he got his wish. 

Time slowed, moving like honey in pauses and starts of lips and teeth, fingers in hair and warm bodies pressed close, aligned and intertwined. They kissed like teenagers who didn’t know what came next, as if this was all they could have. Arousal was humming through Yuri’s bones, present but just out of reach, leaving him in no hurry to speed the process along as they explored each other with lips and hands alone.

Otabek’s hand slipped down the back of Yuri’s jeans, thumbing over the cleft of his ass, and Yuri arched, gasping. He pressed his cock into unforgiving denim and, beneath that, the answering heat of Otabek’s erection. 

Groaning into the endless slide of Yuri’s mouth, Otabek rolled his hips up, seeking more friction, and Yuri answered him with a fluid motion. He kept his hand at the back of Otabek’s head, guiding, gripping what hair he could find, while his other hand crept again under the other man’s shirt, seeking and then thumbing over Otabek’s nipple. 

The body beneath his shivered, electrified, and then whimpered as Yuri’s touch turned rough.

Gripping Yuri’s ass firmly beneath his jeans, Otabek began to writhe under him in earnest, and the reins of control slipped from Yuri’s hands. Eyes screwed closed, he pressed blunt teeth to skin, gasping into Otabek’s shoulder, his neck, his collar.

The sound of Otabek’s open-mouthed panting against his ear told Yuri that the other man was in no better state. Yuri’s fingers were clumsy as he fumbled between them, unwilling to stop their slow drive toward pleasure even as he reached for the button of Otabek’s jeans.

He hadn’t felt so inept and lust-dumb in years. Realizing it was a lost cause this way, he wrenched himself away, rolling to the side. Otabek blinked at him and reached out, bereft. As Yuri began unzipping his jeans, shimmying his hips to get them down, Otabek finally caught on in time to get his own zipper open.

That was all he had time to do before Yuri was on him again. There was barely enough room between their bodies for Yuri to snake a hand into the opening of Otabek’s pants, and his wrist twisted at an unpleasant angle but-

“Fuck,” Otabek spit as Yuri’s fingers skimmed the slit of his cock and came away slick. A little shiver ran down Yuri’s spine at the sound of the word on Otabek’s tongue. “This isn’t going to take long,” he warned.

“Good,” Yuri said. Otabek’s hand was already dipping beneath the waistband of his underwear, and he could feel the anticipation coiling low and hot in his belly. “I won’t need to be embarrassed, then.” 

Otabek’s hand slipped inside, curling around Yuri’s cock, and any other words he may have had were lost to the overwhelming need to drive himself into that tight grip.

It didn’t take long. Both of them were too close to the edge already, too driven by searing need to wait or try to slow what they had started. Otabek turned his face up, his mouth seeking Yuri’s once again for what was too biting, bruising, open-mouthed and noisy to be called a kiss. 

Just as Yuri’s wrist began to hurt in truth, Otabek shuddered and came, spilling hot over Yuri’s cramping hand. He dragged his hand free just in time for Otabek to twist his grip, thumbing over the tip of Yuri’s cock as his tongue thrust into Yuri’s mouth, and then Yuri was coming too, twisting as he muffled what might have been a whimper into Otabek’s mouth.

Yuri’s chest was still heaving as he stared across the pillow at Otabek’s warm eyes. Flushed and satisfied was a good look for him, and the only thing that stopped Yuri from reaching out once more to pull him close was the tacky slick of cum still coating his fingers.

Yuri wrinkled his nose and went to wipe it on the sheets between them, but Otabek caught his wrist. 

“Hang on,” he said. He pressed a last kiss to the base of Yuri’s throat and rolled off the bed, padding to the bathroom unabashedly naked. 

Yuri took full advantage of the opportunity to watch him move, golden skin bare in the afternoon light streaming through the open window. He had nothing to be ashamed of, for sure - compact lines and well-defined muscles telegraphed his devotion to their sport. His body was honed by that passion into something that was attractive beyond the aesthetic of it.

It had been clear since childhood that Yuri would always be lithe, not bulky. He was grateful for that, and for the way it allowed him to keep flexibility that other men lost as they grew, but there were advantages to wearing power on his shoulders the way Otabek did.

Then again, Otabek’s shoulders weren’t where Yuri was looking. God bless skater butts.

The bathroom door clicked closed behind Otabek, followed by the sound of running water. A minute later, he was back, wash cloth in hand. He reached out, as if he intended to clean Yuri himself, but placed the cloth in Yuri’s outstretched hand without protest.

He settled back onto the bed next to him, and Yuri tensed as Otabek reached out. Was he going to rest his arm on Yuri like this was a _date_? But Otabek only reached past him for the remote and turned on the TV. 

Everything was in Italian, of course. They weren’t going to be able to understand any of it. Otabek flipped through the channels anyway - crap, crap, crap, and then the familiar blue sky and clouds that opened each episode of The Simpsons. They may not speak Italian, but some things were universal. Otabek lowered the remote to lie between them on the bed, and Yuri relaxed back onto the pillows, smiling as he began to recognize the old episode. 

They watched the whole thing, not speaking. The only sound in the room was the chatter of the characters on the screen and the occasional breathy laugh as one of them recognized a joke despite the language barrier.

When the screen faded to black and yellow credits, Yuri checked his phone. No messages, but the day was dragging on. It would be dark out all too soon, and those girls should have given up on him already. He was running out of excuses to stay.

He rolled from the bed and began scavenging for his shirt.

“Time to head out?” Otabek asked.

“Yeah, I should get back.” He pulled his shirt on, then located the sleeve of his jacket peeking out from beneath the other bed. “Thanks for letting me hide out.”

“It was hard work, but I’m glad I could help,” Otabek said, amusement coloring the undertones of his voice.

Yuri rolled his eyes and resisted the impulse to throw his jacket at him. “I’m sure.”

“Before you go, can I see your phone?” Yuri’s hesitation must have been obvious, because Otabek clarified. “I’m not letting you leave until you follow me back.”

Shaking his head, Yuri unlocked the phone and handed it over. Deftly, Otabek tapped at the screen, then held the phone up, clearly snapping a selfie, bare chest and all. 

Yuri grabbed for the phone, his heart racing, but instead of Instagram, he found his contacts open. Otabek’s dark eyes stared up at him from the photo, a small smile playing on his lips above a phone number with an unfamiliar area code.

“You can friend me on Instagram yourself,” Otabek said, deadpan, as he sat up to grab his shirt from the bedside table. “But if you want a more appropriate photo of me, you’ll have to take one another time.”

“Yeah?” Yuri asked, stuffing the phone into his pocket. He looked back over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “What makes you think I want a different one?”

\- 

Yuri had entered the short program the next day with a strange smokey elation hanging over his head. He’d slept well, despite the time difference and the unfamiliar hotel noises. The arena felt electric, packed to capacity, and the crowd was a single living mass within the stands. It was with that energy all around him that Yuri had launched himself into his short program with dedicated fervor. 

He caught himself on the boards after, drumming his thumbs on the edge as he waited for Yakov to hand him his skate guards. With them safely in place, he stalked alongside his coach to the kiss and cry, snatching his jacket back from Yakov’s shoulder as they walked.

He dropped onto the bench, not bothering to wave or pose for the cameras. His gaze was focused only on the screen at their feet. He clutched his knees, jiggling one of his legs as he waited for the scores to come through.

Yakov’s hand covered one knee, stopping the movement. The old man’s expression was even more fierce than usual.

“Why are you so impatient today?” he asked. “Even your skating…” He shook his head. 

“Does it matter?” Yuri was tempted to fidget again, but held himself still and straight. “What’s taking them so long anyway? There shouldn’t be that much to review!”

Yakov only shook his head again.

The screen flashed as the announcer called out, and Yuri leaned in close. 92.53. He was now in first place. Good.

He ducked Yakov’s arm as the old man reached out to pose for a photo, shrugging into his jacket as he stood. 

“Where are you going?” Yakov huffed, but Yuri was already striding off through the stands. 

He scanned the crowd as he walked, shrugging off the novice skaters and fans who tried to approach. He didn’t need to be fielding awkward questions from strangers today. Searching between the seats, he spotted a familiar dark head and blue jacket perched high in the rafters. That would do.

He jogged up the steps to meet Katsuki, who blinked at him, eyes owl-round over his face mask as Yuri stopped in the aisle beside him and then plopped down a few seats away. He propped his feet up on the empty seats in front of them and pulled his hood up to cover his trademark hair.

Far below them, Otabek was taking his position at center ice. 

From so far away, watching the program was more like watching on his television at home, aside from how cold it was in the arena. He could see the solid lines of Otabek’s form, could almost feel the familiar slip of his skates as he adjusted edges before his jumps, but it wasn’t as present - as _real_ as it felt to watch from the boards.

He’d thought that climbing into the stands would make him less obvious, but he could still feel eyes on him. He tried to ignore it, focusing his attention on the program playing out below. He hadn’t seen Otabek’s short at PyeongChang, hadn’t even gotten around to watching video of that performance yet. He found himself wondering if Otabek had also been working in the month since they last competed, improving his elements.

He turned during Otabek’s step sequence and caught Katsuki staring.

“What?” Yuri asked. The blushing teenager quickly looked away.

“Nothing,” Katsuki said. “I just… I thought you didn’t like to watch other skaters during competition?”

“I don’t,” Yuri said, shrugging as he traced Otabek’s setup for his final jump. 

“Do you- Did you watch _me_?” The kid’s voice was shaking, tongue tripping over his accent. 

Yuri glanced over right as Otabek hit his final position. “No,” he said. “Should I?”

“No!” Katsuki tensed up, eyes fixed on the floor between his feet. 

Interesting. His reactions seemed too vehement to be casual. The kid was practically vibrating in his seat, clutching his own arms as he refused to meet Yuri’s eyes.

“I can’t read your mind, you know,” Yuri said. The speaker above them crackled to life, announcing Otabek’s score. 85.7. He’d be going into the free skate in second place, right below Yuri.

The audience cheered and began to rise from their seats, filtering out for the break before the pair skaters would compete in the evening. Apparently realizing his time with Yuri was about to end, Katsuki broke.

“I was hoping you might have tips,” he said. “Or feedback, if you saw something I could improve in my skating. But if you haven’t seen me, that’s fine. I know you’re busy. I shouldn’t ask-”

“I’ve seen videos,” Yuri said, cutting off the stream of excuses and apologies. “I watch other skaters, just not during competition. You need more confidence, and you pre-rotate too much going into your lutz. You’ll have to fix that if you ever want to land it as a quad.”

Katsuki’s mouth dropped open. “A _quad lutz_? I can’t land that. I’ve barely even got the toe loop.”

Yuri shrugged. The stadium was quickly emptying, but the zamboni was still skidding along the ice below them. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “You’ve got the foundations, you’re still young, and you’re going to need more quads if you want to start winning. But this is all stuff your coach should be telling you anyway.” 

Yuuri didn’t respond, struck dumb by either the thought of jumping a quad lutz or the suggestion he might win something. Yuri thought back. Katsuki had been without his coach at the ISU party in PyeongChang. He’d been alone and nervous going into his Olympic free skate. Now, Yuri couldn’t recall seeing Katsuki with a coach at Worlds either, except in the kiss and cry when his scores came in.

“Where the hell is your coach, anyway?” he demanded. He’d been pushing this out of his head for far too long. “How come I never see him around?”

Yuuri flushed to the tips of his ears and stared down at the floor. “I don’t see him during competition much,” he mumbled. “Japan has other skaters who need his attention. My ballet instructor usually accompanies me to events, but she couldn’t make it this week.”

“Are you serious?” Yuri stood up and crossed his arms. “That’s not what a coach is supposed to do! Japan’s other skaters… tch. None of them performed half as well in PyeongChang, and you did it with a handicap too.”

Yuuri looked up at that, peeking at Yuri through a fringe of black hair in serious need of a trim. “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said. “And, you know what?” He slipped out of the aisle and turned on the steps to level a finger at Yuuri. “I’m going to watch you skate on Saturday. I expect to see you at your best, so don’t disappoint me.”

Yuuri’s eyes blew wide, but then a look of resolve washed over his features. He nodded, and Yuri nodded back before leaving.

It would be interesting to see what the kid could really do with some motivation. As he hopped down the last few steps to meet Yakov at the entrance, Yuri realized he was looking forward to seeing it.

The thought caught him off guard. Yuri had never cared about his competitors, never wanted to know them personally or given a damn about whether they had shitty coaches. He hadn’t been lying when he told Mila he’d be terrible at coaching - he knew himself well enough to know that.

Maybe he was getting soft in his old age. 

As he walked with Yakov through the halls, a voice he was beginning to learn well curled around him over the din of reporters and fans. Yuri turned and spotted Otabek leaning against the wall, looking very serious as he spoke into a reporter’s microphone.

Seeing Yuri, Altin almost smiled. He raised his hand, and Yuri’s stomach clenched. Oh. Altin looked happy to see him. The realization smashed over Yuri’s head like a prop champagne bottle - he’d wanted another chance to see Otabek too. 

The reporter turned, checking to see who the skater was waving to, and Yuri quickly looked away. Yakov was pulling ahead of him now, and Yuri had to jog to catch up. 

“What was that all about?” Yakov grumbled. “Was Altin looking for you?”

“No,” Yuri said, his stomach roiling. “Mistaken identity, maybe. I barely know him.”

-

He dropped onto his bed like a stone and stretched out, spread eagle and face down on the cool comforter. There was a languid, creeping exhaustion in his limbs that he knew would punish him in the morning. Stretching, yoga, ballet - all routines that got more and more necessary with each passing year as he prayed his well-trained muscles would hold the clicking pieces of his knees in place a bit longer.

Tomorrow would be a free day for him. Normally it would be a practice day, a time to put last minute polish on already honed routines, but Yakov had told him not to show up. At this point in the season, especially after the Olympics, he was being ordered to take a rest day. 

Well, Milan was one of the fashion capitals of the world, wasn’t it? Maybe he would go shopping. Yuri’s interest in fashion had waned in recent years as he’d come to accept that most of his favorite clothes only sat in his closet and gathered wrinkles. He cycled between athletic gear, costumes, and the occasional suit. With the hours he spent in training, when was he supposed to find time for street fashion?

But maybe it was time to turn over a new leaf, or resurrect an old one. He flipped onto his back and brushed his hair back onto his shoulders. His fingers caught a tangle and he cursed softly. He thought about cutting it again. That would certainly make an impression on the audience at the free skate, but it might distract them from the program itself.

Yuri pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up his navigation app, browsing through the nearest shops and salons. Most of the current fashion trends weren’t to his taste, but there were a few labels nearby that looked promising, and he did have a whole day to explore.

A message bubble popped up on the screen, attacking him with an image of Altin lying back on a bed, bare to the waist.

Oh. It was the picture he’d taken. He was _texting_ Yuri, and - Yuri squinted at the contact info again - apparently he’d saved his name in Yuri’s phone as _Beka_.

 **Beka:** Hey

 **Beka:** Dinner?

A man of many words. Yuri tightened his grip on his phone, thumbs hovering over the buttons on the screen. Dinner? What would that entail, exactly? Maybe Otabek was hungry, and he didn’t know anyone else. 

Lies. Yuri knew from the Olympics that he got on perfectly well with Katsuki, as well as a couple of the others. Another option - he wanted to fuck again. That was more plausible, but then Yuri hadn’t needed dinner to take his pants off the other two times. 

Or maybe he just wanted to see Yuri. The thought sank like a stone into his gut. What then? They could go to dinner - Italian food, of course, but something light on the carbs since they’d be skating. They’d have the waiter bring wine and clink their glasses together over a lit candle. Maybe there would be white tablecloths, and maybe Otabek would smile at him while the soft, golden light of the room burnished his skin.

Maybe he’d want to hold hands. 

Yuri pulled one of the hotel pillows down and held it over his own face in an attempt to smother the heat in his cheeks, extinguish the flutter of nerves in his chest.

He closed his eyes and stared into the blackness. What would he do then, if that _was_ what Altin wanted from him? Yuri’d had plenty of hookups. He’d even had one very short term boyfriend move in with him. They’d been dating for three months at that point. He’d moved into the apartment during late August and left in September, a week after the skating season began.

That was the closest he’d ever come to someone knowing him. It was the closest any of them had come to wanting to stay.

 _Selfish_ was a word he’d heard a lot.

 _Asshole_ was another.

His phone vibrated against his hip, and he tossed the pillow to the side. Otabek had sent another message - a link this time, to the menu for a restaurant nearby. Yuri looked at the website. There were white tablecloths.

He hovered over the buttons again. What was he doing here? 

He was at Worlds. It could very well be his last, and here he was lying in bed with his phone, chewing his lip like a nervy teenager trying to puzzle out if someone was asking him on a date or not.

 **Yuri:** No.

It was a difficult thing to type out, despite the simplicity of the answer.

 **Yuri:** We’re not friends.

 **Yuri:** Stop pretending that we are.

He pressed send on the last message, then shoved his phone under the pillow and sat up. He hunched over and buried his fingers in his hair, tugging at the roots. The phone was vibrating again, a muffled whine. He stacked a second pillow on top of the first.

It was a dick move. Of course it was. Yuri was a dick. It was better if Otabek wasn’t allowed to imagine otherwise.

There was only the free skate left to worry about. That was all Yuri needed to be focused on right now. He just needed to keep his head together a couple more days and skate clean, and he’d be walking onto the plane back home a _five_ -time world champion. 

And then he’d be back in Piter, and from there… what?

Yuri stared at the blank white hotel wall ahead. Then what? Then what? He had no plan, no family to return to. The question had been haunting him for years, and now it had teeth. _What next_ , it hissed as it drove its fangs into his leg.

But Yuri still didn’t have the answer. The world was telling him that he could no longer skate, but once he was retired, who would he be? Just Yuri, a selfish asshole, without the one thing that made him special.

-

Yuri turned, keeping his back toward Yakov as he stretched his calves against the wall behind the stands. The old man’s eyes had been on him from the moment he dragged himself into the arena. Yuri had done his own hair and makeup at the hotel, dabbing the concealer beneath his eyes with a pinky in the hopes that it would cover his fatigue.

He didn’t seem to be fooling Yakov.

Going shopping had been a good idea. It had kept him out of his hotel room and away from the rink, and in addition to new clothes, he’d stocked up on photos to put on Instagram later. But it hadn’t stopped him from staring down at the notification icon still lingering from Otabek’s reply Yuri hadn’t wanted to know what it said.

Despite all the walking and the heavy food he’d eaten on his day off, he’d been restless last night. Eventually, he gave in, grabbing his phone from the bedside table to open the unread message. The screen was too bright in the dark room, searing the response into his memory.

 **Beka** : Fine.

 _Fine_ , it said, with a period on the end that screamed it was anything but. _Fine._ I’m pissed. _Fine._ I hate you.

When he’d finally slept, it had been a slow, stuttering surrender to unconsciousness while late night television scenes flashed across the backs of his eyelids.

It wasn’t a great condition to enter his free skate with, but it was what he had.

He straightened up and began to pull on his skates as the announcers called the last performer for the previous group. 

“I’d like to ask if you have any surprises planned today,” Yakov said gruffly. “But you already changed your entire free skate with no notice to me once.”

“No plans,” Yuri reassured him anyway. “Except to win.”

Yakov hummed, unconvinced. 

Together, they walked out to join the rest of the final group for their warm-up. 

Yuri could see nerves all around him in the bouncing shivers of the other skaters waiting to go on the ice. Katsuki caught his eye, and the boy gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. He looked pained, but not as shaken as he had at the Olympics, despite the fact that his coach was standing some distance away and looking more at his phone than his skater. Yuri pushed aside the burn of indignation in his chest.

Altin was leaning on the boards across from Yuri, his team jacket zipped to the throat over his free skate costume. Their eyes met, and the contact hit Yuri like a wave and trickled down to his fingertips. Otabek turned away first.

The announcer called the group to warm up, and Yuri entered the ice with the others, raising his fist in triumph when the crowd howled after his name. He knew what they wanted, but beneath the layers of makeup, he still felt hollowed out. His thighs ached and resisted his every move. His knees popped and groaned as he landed a triple lutz. The audience ooh-ed as he went through the motions. How could so many people be oblivious to what was happening right in front of them? Did any of them give a damn?

After an outrageously long six minutes, Yuri circled off the ice with the others. 

He took his water bottle from Yakov and tucked it under his arm, then nodded to the nearby rows of stands. “I’m staying out here,” he said. “There’s something I need to see.”

Yakov shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Vitya is texting me again. I’ll be calling him back if you need me.” 

Over by the boards, Yuri spotted Katsuki’s coach again. He was talking to his skater for once as Yuuri waited at the side of the rink to be announced. The boy nodded along to whatever was being said, but his eyes were unfocused, his mind on something else.

Yuri was pleased to see resolve on Katsuki’s face as his name was called and he pushed off from the boards to circle the arena. He already seemed more confident that he had at PyeongChang. As he took position at center ice, his limbs snapped into configuration with practiced ease.

The music began, and Yuri leaned forward on the boards. _Ah._ He could see now, how it was that Katsuki was already placing so well at his age. His movements had a flow to them that spoke of not just training but a _love_ of dance. It was visible in the arch of his back during his Ina Bauer and the pitch-perfect rhythm of his step sequence. 

His jumps were a different story, with the exception of the triple axel. The axel was better than Yuri’s own - confident, quick, and tight in the air. It was a jump that told him Katsuki didn’t hate jumping, which was great, because otherwise Yuri might have told him to give up and try ice dance.

Yuuri’s other jumps were shaky - under-rotated, over-rotated, sloppy edges, the works. Yuri could see him wobble and suck in shuddering breath before each one, his confidence faltering each time he started to set up for the next pass.

But it wasn’t terrible, and he didn’t fall this time. In fact, some of Yuuri’s issues were easy fixes. He needed to re-train his lutz so he didn’t pre-rotate so much. With the salchow, he had more than enough air time for the quad, but he faltered in the air, second-guessed the landing, and didn’t get his free leg out in time. 

At some point in the four minute performance, Yuri pulled out his phone. By the time the last notes faded into an echo, he’d taken two full pages of notes on where Yuuri could improve, and on what he’d enjoyed as well.

Katsuki waved at Yuri as he left the ice, flushed and damp from exertion. His coach didn’t even turn to see where Yuuri was looking, giving his skater a perfunctory pat on the shoulder as they walked to the kiss and cry. Bastard. He didn’t seem to have eyes to recognize potential when it was right in front of him. 

When the score came back, Yuri couldn’t stop himself from nodding in satisfaction. 172.88 would put Yuuri into first for now. With five skaters still to go, it wasn’t a guarantee of a medal, but it meant he’d finish higher at Worlds than he had in PyeongChang. On the monitors, the boy looked stunned.

Yuri took a break for the next couple of skaters, wandering back through the bowels of the rink to refill his water bottle and do a few quick stretches, not wanting to lose the limberness of his warm-up. 

Exiting back into the stands some minutes later, he was pleased to see that Katsuki still sat at the top of the standings.

“The Japanese boy?” Yakov asked, appearing suddenly at Yuri’s side. “That’s surprising.”

“Not really.” Yuri didn’t miss the way Yakov’s eyes narrowed at him, but he turned his head away, putting on a fiction of disinterest. 

Ahead of them, Otabek’s dark head was bent toward his coach, listening to the important last minute reminders and murmurs of encouragement.

“Still have something to see out here?” Yakov asked. He sounded far too smug for Yuri’s comfort, but it wasn’t surprising that he’d noticed something. He _had_ known Yuri more than half his life, after all.

Yuri didn’t move, watching with intent as Otabek took his starting position. 

He’d seen this program at PyeongChang of course. No one else was crazy enough to change their entire free skate only a month before Worlds. But at the Olympics he’d still believed that Otabek had the quad loop. He’d been waiting with bated breath at each set up, watching his feet and positioning for a hint.

Now, he could watch the program as a whole, and he found that he liked it. The movements were crisp and clean. It was musical, classically so, but bold. It suited Otabek, like it was telling a story about his commitment, his loyalty. The earthy purple tone of his costume even seemed part of the persona. Yuri could see the story unfold before him - a man, a hero who did great things for others, but sought no reward for himself.

He remembered Otabek’s words as they walked together through the Olympic village. _I’d watch recordings of other skaters over and over, trying to mimic their movements in slow motion._ Those elements he’d fought for shown through in his program.

What had he said to Otabek about it then? Not much. He’d been fishing for compliments more than information. He had used that vulnerability to pry his opponent open with his own two hands, with every intent to toss him aside like a used napkin.

Time and again, Yuri had proven himself an asshole, and Otabek’s response to the behavior had been understanding and tolerant. He’d shown only grace, nobility, and kindness.

Yuri didn’t deserve any of it.

And Otabek was worth more - more than Yuri could give him, and more than the scores the _fucking judges_ were likely about to give him as well. 

Yuri’s fingers clenched around his water bottle, as Otabek turned to set up his final jump with a pattern of movement that Yuri knew as well as his own breath. Would he-?

And he had. He’d landed the quad salchow, free leg swept out just as beautifully as Yuri would have hoped. His head was held high as many in the stands lurched to their feet, screaming. By landing the jump, Otabek was making history for Kazakhstan.

Without hesitation, Otabek flew into his final steps, the spin, and finally the dramatic final pose. He was gulping for air when he stopped, and then - only then - raised a fist in triumph. 

“Are you ready?” Yakov asked, his voice flat. Yuri nodded, turning to pass his coach his jacket and water as Otabek came off the ice to go to the kiss and cry. 

As he slid his skate guards on, their eyes met, immediate and burning. Yuri’s chest seized. There were other skaters who had the salchow, but it had been Yuri’s first. It was his jump.

Now, it was Otabek’s too.

Otabek nodded to him in acknowledgement, but said nothing. His face was unreadable as he followed his coach down to await his scores, leaving Yuri caught on the wrong side of the boards.

Yakov nudged him, shattering the spell, and Yuri gathered the few pieces of himself that he could find before entering the rink. 

All around him, the crowd was roaring, welcoming their champion back home. Yuri raised his fists over his head in a semblance of confidence as he glided around to take center ice. As the screams died, he could only hear the hollow echo of how alone he was in the enormous space.

From that point, it was all mist and shadows. 

As the last notes of his program faded and the crowd screamed his name, Yuri bent over, clutching his own knees and gulping down air as toys and flowers fell around the edge of the rink. 

What had he done? Was it good? Terrible? Was the audience screaming with joy, or trying to encourage him out of pity?

He waved to the stands, and took his time returning to the exit, worn down and feeling as if the very ceiling had collapsed onto his back.

Yakov’s face was fading from red as he handed Yuri back his things. “I thought you said no surprises,” he grumbled. 

Yuri lacked the energy to argue, much less to explain what had happened. It was a blur.

He sank onto the bench at the kiss and cry and watched as the judges frantically whispered to one another in the distance. The monitors at his feet began to replay his skate, and he leaned forward in interest.

It didn’t look good. Even on the tiny screen, Yuri could see his eyes were unfocused. He couldn't tell from element replays if the _performance_ was good or not, but he watched as he failed element after element, popping his triple axel, then landing a beautiful triple salchow that should have been a quad. It wasn’t quite a disaster - no falls, no injuries, and some of the jumps were perfectly fine, but it was far from what he wanted, far from what he planned.

Yakov muttered to himself, irritated by either the wait for scores or Yuri himself. The replay neared the end of the program and Yuri saw himself turn on the ice, set up for the loop, jump, and then - landed.

Landed the _quad_ loop. In competition. 

A wave of cold shock hit Yuri in the face. He did it. He didn’t even plan to, but he-

The announcer’s voice cut off his train of thought as the monitor at his feet changed to footage of the kiss and cry. 

“The score for Yuri Plisetsky is… 176.44. He is now in second place. This concludes this portion of the competition.”

Yuri could feel Yakov looking at him, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the list of final placings. Second place. Another silver medal, and that was it for him. That would be the note he went out on. 

“Yura,” Yakov said, his voice strangled. Before he could finish, Yuri stood up and began to walk to where volunteers were scurrying to prepare the podium. Whatever Yakov had to say, he wasn’t ready to hear it.

It was like watching the world around him through a sheet of bulletproof glass. Yuri could see the others circling him, hear the nonsense murmur of their words, but he stood apart. He pulled his team jacket to his chest, staring blankly ahead. 

He would wait. He would stand on the steps for the last time, and he would receive his final medal. 

As the workers put the finishing touches on the ceremony, Yuri realized Katsuki was standing beside him. Had he spoken? He looked over, and the kid gave him a twitching, tentative smile. He looked more scared of the medal than he had been of the performance.

“I have some notes for you,” Yuri said, sounding loud and harsh on his own ears. “After all this.” Yuuri’s mouth stretched, his smile solidifying in response.

One by one, the three medalists took their places on the podium. Yuri received his silver as if in a dream, reminding himself occasionally to blink. The announcers were rambling, switching languages, and Yuri couldn’t tell one from the next. Around them, the crowd’s screams and applause became a rushing roar and enveloped him in sound. Press cameras flashed out distress signals in Morse code.

As abruptly as they’d begun, the cameras stopped. The cries of the audience dimmed. From the step above him, Otabek looked down, the gold medal on his chest catching the light. His dark eyes were wide and his brow furrowed as he stared at Yuri.

“Yuri,” he murmured, too quiet for the reporters to overhear. “Are you okay?”

Yuri blinked, trying to shake off the blanket that was enveloping him. His eyelids felt stiff and swollen. He reached up to rub them and felt wetness on his fingertips.

He was crying. 

Otabek was still watching him with concern. Yuri’s hand, caught in the air, trembled, and he realized he was shaking, almost shivering on the podium. He opened his mouth, reaching for an excuse, but nothing came out.

Someone tugged at his sleeve, and he turned to find Yakov holding out his jacket. “Come now, Yuratchka,” the old man said, a soft invocation of a name he hadn’t used in years. 

Yuri stepped down and let Yakov help him into the jacket. They walked away from the podium and left the rink together - Yuri with his arm across his coach’s shoulders, and Yakov half-carrying the former champion by the waist.

-

Yakov had attempted to talk to him, but Yuri still wasn’t ready to have that conversation. He’d only shaken his head, wiping the tears and snot from his face with the end of a sleeve. After a few attempts, the old man had left him, scribbling his room number on a hotel notepad by the bed in case Yuri changed his mind.

It took a while before he felt ready to do anything more than lie back on his bed and stare at the ceiling, searching for patterns in the popcorn texture. When he finally did get up, it was only because he couldn’t stand wearing his costume for a moment longer.

He stripped and showered, scrubbing the remains of his breakdown out of his pores, watching the water swirl down the drain and take his career with it.

It was still early afternoon, and sunlight streamed warm through the window of his room. Eventually, he’d have to at least greet the waiter who brought room service. He shrugged into the scratchy white robe the hotel had provided.

The Yuri in the bathroom mirror looked ragged. His dripping hair hung in tangles, and his eyes still looked red and swollen. At this rate, he’d have to do his makeup just to step outside for a drink. At least he could do something about the hair. He grabbed his comb, focusing on getting the snarls out without yanking his own hair out. Once again, he considered cutting it. Why not?

A soft knock on the door interrupted his routine.

“Hang on,” he called out, finishing up the last section of hair. Yakov must have gotten sick of waiting for him to call already.

He took his time putting the comb away before going to the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to find Katsuki waiting in the hallway instead, a squirming bit of brown fluff clutched against his chest.

The boy stuck his arms straight out, offering the little poodle to Yuri. “This is Vicchan,” he said. 

Tentative, Yuri reached out, allowing the dog to sniff his fingers. 

Smells thoroughly inspected, Vicchan stuck out his little pink tongue and began to lavish Yuri’s hand with kisses. Yuuri straightened his arms again, indicating for Yuri to take the dog. He did, scooping the little body close against his own as Vicchan transferred his attention from Yuri’s hand to any other bit of skin he could reach above the robe.

Yuri stepped back from the doorway and nodded. “You can come in, if you want.”

The kid was flustered and kept looking down at the carpet, but he seemed otherwise fine. What was he doing here? Then, Yuri remembered his notes.

“Now isn’t really a good time,” Yuri said. “And some of my notes won’t do you any good without ice to demonstrate on anyway.”

“Oh, that’s not why I’m here!” Yuuri thrust his hands into his pockets and shifted. “I thought… Vicchan is my emotional support dog,” he paused, face turning even more red under Yuri’s scrutiny. “I thought maybe you could use a friend.”

Yuri shook his head. He laughed, soft and mirthless, but stopped himself when Yuuri looked up. “Not laughing at you,” he said. “More at myself. I really fell apart so badly that I need a teenager and a therapy dog to help me?”

Yuuri opened his mouth as if to protest, but Yuri cut him off. “No. Don’t answer that. I did. It’s fine.” 

He sat down on the bed and settled Vicchan on his lap, and the little dog leaned into the warmth of his core, snuggling into the folds of the robe. Yuri began running his fingers through the short, soft curls of fur. He swallowed.

“Congratulations on the bronze,” he told Yuuri, tone mild. It wasn’t what he would have wanted - not even at Yuuri’s age - but the teen pinked again at the attention.

“Thank you,” he said. He sank down to the carpeted floor, pretzeling his legs and smiling down at his clasped hands. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

Vicchan began to squirm in Yuri’s hands, as if sensing his master’s needs. Yuri let go, and the dog sprang to the floor. He planted his front paws on Yuuri’s leg and began to lick at his ankles until the boy broke, shaking his head, and reached out to ruffle Vicchan’s curls.

Yuri scooted down onto the floor to join them, holding his robe to make sure it stayed closed. Yuuri seemed overwhelmed enough being in the room with him most days. He might combust if he accidentally caught an eyeful. 

“You know, I’m not really a dog person,” Yuri said, drumming his fingers on the carpet in an attempt to catch Vicchan’s attention. “But this little guy is okay.”

“Vicchan is very cat-sized,” Yuuri agreed. 

“Maybe I’ll get a cat after I retire,” Yuri mused. Vicchan, uninterested in his fingers on the floor, finally trotted over as Yuri made a scratching motion. His whole body wagged when Yuri began to rub at the base of his tail. “I always wanted one, but I travel too much. Now I can turn into that sad old recluse who just stays home and collects strays.”

Yuuri was strangely silent. When Yuri looked up from Vicchan, he found the kid chewing on his lip. “What?”

“Are you retiring?” Yuuri blurted out. “Really?”

Yuri’s hand dropped from the dog’s back as he examined Yuuri’s face. The kid seemed distraught by the idea. Yuri hadn’t really thought about the fact that people - Yakov aside - might be _upset_ by his retirement, least of all a competitor. After all, he was only clearing the podium for others to step up.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve just turned twenty-eight. That’s old for a skater. And with programs like his Olympic free, I’ll never be able to keep up with Vit- Victor. I’d have to break myself apart trying.”

“But you landed the quad loop!” Yuuri protested, then caught himself again. “I mean, it’s up to you, of course. I just… I never pictured skating without you.”

“I didn’t know you were such a fan,” Yuri said, trying to keep his tone light. “Did you want an autograph?”

“No!” Yuuri said, pink again, but then, “Yes. I admire you. Every skater does, don’t they? Even though they want to defeat you as well, they would have to.” Vicchan climbed into his lap again and Yuuri began to stroke his side, clearly soothing himself with the motion as much as the dog. “I’ve been watching you compete for my entire life. The first time I went to the rink as a little kid, it was because of watching _you_ on TV - graceful, confident. I wanted to be just like that.

“Of course, I’m nothing like that,” Yuuri shook his head before Yuri could interrupt. “I’m weak still. I worry, not ‘will I screw up?’ but ‘how will I screw up this time?’. No matter how hard I push, I can’t seem to keep my heart off the ice like you do.”

“Good,” Yuri said. Yuuri looked up sharply at that, hand stilling on Vicchan’s side. Yuri tried to smile at him, but he could feel it falling flat, so he pressed on. “Don’t try to be me. I’m not… I’m not someone you should admire that way. Technical, sure. I’m not ashamed to admit that I have skills, but maybe leaving feelings out of it isn’t the best way to go.” He did smile then, a little sad but still laughing at himself. “Unless you, too, want to someday have an emotional breakdown in the middle of a live television event.”

Yuuri laughed at that, shocked and breathless. 

“Yeah,” Yuri cracked. “Maybe don’t mimic my career _too_ closely, okay?”

“Okay,” Yuuri said. “I’ll keep that part in mind.”

Silence dropped down around them and settled in, tinged still with the hint of awkwardness, and Yuri leveraged himself on the bed to get to his feet, wincing as his body adjusted to the change of positions. He needed to stretch.

“I’m going to get some dinner,” Yuri said. “And eat it alone in my room like a monster, but,” he broke off to grab a sheet of paper from the hotel notepad by the bed and scribbled out his signature and - below that - his phone number. “Thanks for coming by.”

Yuuri stared down at the note as if it might lunge at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Yuri said. “The dog did help, and, well, I still have those performance notes for you.”

There was a bit more stuttering still to play through after that - “Thank you.” “No, thank _you_.” and so on, almost but not quite to the point that Yuri lost his temper with it, and then Yuuri and Vicchan finally retreated down the hallway and left Yuri to his own devices.

The first thing he did was call down to the restaurant and order room service fit for an athlete - steak with potatoes, sparkling water, chocolate cake, _and_ a scoop of gelato on top of that. If he was going to be a pig, at least he’d be a pig with expensive taste.

He laid back on the bed and picked up his phone, turning it over and over in his hands. A web of possibilities stretched out at his fingertips. 

He could call Yakov and ask for an earlier flight home and avoid seeing everyone’s faces after the humiliation of the day. The ISU had asked him to participate in the exhibition, of course, but it wouldn’t be the first time Yuri had bunked off from a gala and banquet. 

He could text Otabek and tell him he was sorry for being such a jerk, but then his next thought after that was that he could also ask him to come over. They could talk, watch a little Italian TV, maybe Otabek would take off his shirt- 

That way lay madness. He’d just be doing the same fuck-ups over and over and expecting different results.

And then there was the exhibition. He’d had the same one all season - a flowery, interpretive ballet piece that Lilia choreographed for him. It wasn’t his style, and he’d spent the whole season hating every minute of it.

But now, it was beginning to seem strangely appropriate. It was a song full of weeping strings, minor chords, and longing. It could be the best possible performance for him to punctuate his career with - a song of sadness, mourning the death of his success and the opportunities untaken.

No, he couldn’t run from this. He wouldn’t end his career by lurking in the shadows. He would have to stay, perform his exhibition, and go to the banquet. There, he could begin to say his last farewells to skating, and then… 

Then what?

In the dark corner of his mind, an idea was forming. It wasn’t much yet, but he pulled it closer and began to look it over. Maybe there was a little more than nothing waiting for him in the world outside, if the world still wanted him.

-

Yuri’s face was getting sore from all the smiling, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Every time he wiped the expression away, someone patted him on the back and congratulated him, or he’d remember the roar of the crowd and the rain of flowers onto the ice as he froze in his finishing pose.

He didn’t remember ever having finished a skate this pleased with himself - no frustrations or recriminations, just pure, cathartic joy. He was high on it.

His banquet suit was already rumpled by the time he arrived at the venue, bowtie hanging loose around his neck as he entered the ballroom. 

Just inside the door, an ISU official tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Plisetsky,” he said. “So nice to see you. If I could spare a moment…”

Nodding, Yuri stepped aside and listened as the official and a pair of sponsors began to pitch an ice show to him. 

“Plisetsky and Friends,” the sponsor said. “We’ll fund the up-front tour costs for you, and you can select the invited skaters personally.”

“Plisetsky and Friends,” Yuri repeated. He couldn’t restrain the laugh that bubbled up after, and the sponsors began to dart suspicious looks at the ISU official.

“Sorry,” Yuri told them when the mirth finally subsided. “You’d have to workshop the name first. Anyone in skating could tell you - I have no friends.” 

He turned, scanning the room, and spotted Yuuri Katsuki at a distant table, picking at the horderves. The kid was alone, of course, but he only looked a bit terrified this time. Progress. 

Yuri waved, then turned back to the sponsors. “I’ll let you know if that changes,” he said, and took advantage of their surprise to leave.

Anticipation churning his stomach, he bypassed the available food. He hadn’t been nervous before a competition in so many years, but the plan he had for this evening had released a whole cloud of butterflies in his gut. Yuri made his way, instead, to the drinks, and quickly downed a glass of champagne.

That did nothing for his nerves, really, but the warmth of the alcohol hitting his bloodstream was soothing. He set the empty flute aside and picked up two more before turning to the room.

His target was easy enough to spot, but maybe that was just Yuri. It felt like lately he had a constant awareness of where the other man was, any time they were in the same room. Otabek might enter in silence, but Yuri would sense that he was there, the currents of air around him announcing his presence.

Yuri was still a few tables away when Otabek raised his head from his phone, looking right at him. Maybe he heard it too.

“Congratulations, World Champion” Yuri said, offering one of the champagne glasses. 

“Thank you,” Otabek said. He was smiling as he accepted the drink and clinked the glass against Yuri’s own, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He seemed wary of Yuri. Well, that was expected. “Disappointed with silver?”

Yuri pulled out a chair and sat down beside him. “A bit,” he admitted. “But with the free skate I had yesterday, I’m not surprised. You deserved that win. Hell, I was probably still over-scored.”

Otabek’s eyebrows reached for his hairline, and Yuri didn’t blame them. It didn’t sound much like him - congratulating an opponent, being humble - but it was past time to try something new. Maybe he’d be a gracious loser from here on out.

Probably not.

“Your exhibition tonight was really moving,” Otabek said. “Was that a preview of next season’s theme?”

“Next season’s theme…” Yuri paused. He hadn’t told anyone but Mila and Yuuri still, though he suspected Yakov knew. “Next season’s theme, I think, is transformation,” he said. When Otabek only nodded, Yuri added, “I’m retiring.”

Otabek’s fingers slipped nerveless from the stem of his champagne flute, and Yuri darted a hand out, catching it before it could totter. He looked up to find Otabek’s dark eyes still wide and watching, and he almost wanted to laugh.

“Why is everyone so shocked by this?” he asked. “I’m twenty-eight. Most of my peers retired years ago.”

“I know,” Otabek said, shaking his head. “I think that’s part of why it’s so surprising.”

He raised his glass, toasting empty air since Yuri’s was already drained. “Congratulations on your retirement, then. What comes next?”

“I’m not sure.” Yuri sank back into the chair. The butterflies were dancing in his stomach again, but as he thought of the possibilities, it was more than just nerves. “I think first I’m going to take a vacation, get away for awhile.” The smile was back, too, irrepressible. “I hear Japan is nice in the Spring.”

“Oh?” Otabek said, darting a glance across the room where Katsuki was still stilling alone. “I think I’ve heard that too.”

“Yeah,” Yuri replied, leaning an elbow on the table, faux-casual despite the anticipation that was making his face heat. “It might get lonely, though, being so far from home. I’d like to have someone to talk to while I’m there - someone like a friend.”

Leaning closer, Otabek smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Yuri still had things to show the world, after all. If the world would have him.

**Author's Note:**

> Meet me [out back](http://louciferish.tumblr.com/) and we can fight about it.


End file.
